Betrayal

Today I dropped Mithi at the day care centre. She looked at me with a gaping mouth. Her eyes were getting moist. She couldn't believe it. Her mother does this to her, not Baba.
She will have to stay here for the next six-seven hours till her mom comes and rescues her. Mithi is just two and a half.

It is a crime upon her, millions like her, who have to leave their parents and get caged in an unknown place. Here they are not pampered, here they are not special. They are one among many, and they must behave. It is a crime and a crime for which the parents should not be forgiven.

We, as children, never had to face this. We were all very secured children. Happy kids. Our fathers worked from morning to evening, they were strangers. Our mothers stayed at home to take care of us. Mothers were our personal heroes and trusted friends. Mithi's generation, at least a sizeable chunk of it, are not that lucky.
Us parents deserve harsh punishment for this negligence. Mithi, my love, may you remain guilt free if in our old age you refuse to recognize us. We must get punished and may the punishment be severe.

We all are running like rats in this city. And we all have our ambitions and aspirations to fulfil. My reason for going to office is to keep the kitchen fire on. Then there's the question of career, hidden ambitions and other intrigues for which I have thousands of fake justification. My wife’s aspiration is to build an identity of her own, have an independent career, have a life outside the familial boundaries. Currently, whatever she is earning is much less than our outgo on the day care and the conveyance towards that. It is unaffordable for us, but I cannot expect my wife to stay at home and take care of the baby. That is another crime. My wife is well educated and a graphic artist who I respect. I can see that she has a great future. However, I know her earnings would never be enough for me to sit at home and be a nice baba to my Mithi.

As I turned around for the elevator, Mithi started crying. I know this tone of cries. Like a cat, she has different patterns of cries. This tone was of betrayal. I have betrayed her trust. She was not expecting me to take her to the day care centre. She thought we were going on a nice trip together. She will never forgive me.

I am not sure how should I face her when I go home tonight. I reach there at 11 pm. By that time Mithi is half asleep but waits for me to come. She sits on my lap and pretends I am her long lost lover. She rubs her cheeks to mine, strokes my hair, speaks in a language that only we two can understand. And then she gets down from the lap and sits on the floor and cry at the top of her voice. There is no tear, her lips protrude and eyes check my reaction from the corners. I have to then take her again on my lap and apologise for all the crimes that I have never committed, but must admit to be guilty of. I should scold her mother and all those imaginary people who have done injustice to her throughout the course of the day. And then I will have to offer her two biscuits. If my tea comes by that time (I generally request my wife to make tea for me after I reach home), Mithi will dip the biscuit and pretend that she is now a little less angry with me. By the time one biscuit finishes she pretends that she has forgiven me.

I will have to let her relish the tea biscuit and the second one she prefers to eat dry. I will then take my cup and enter the other room to have a cigarette beside the window. I will lock the room, but she will bang on the door and cry till I let her enter.

Looking at my cigarette (I know I should not smoke near a kid) she will cry “Happy Birthday, Baba”. She probably thinks a cigarette is a kind of a candle. I will have to say, “Happy Birthday Mamma.”

I will then stub the cigarette and take her in my arms. She will narrate me her entire life in her language before we come to our favourite game – tickle tickle.

When I eat, she will sit on my lap and eat, or soil her hand with my food, throw rice all over the table, or just feed me. Whatever she fancies.

I am concerned today. Will she choose to shower her love on me like this again? Will she forgive me?

I am, after all, the closest person who betrayed her.

One day …

When sadness overflows the urn, it is the perfect time to understand yourself. Unfortunate are those people who have never felt overwhelming sadness, something that can be given to you by your very own.

Just like extreme anger, sadness also liberates you. One doesn’t feel the need to justify anything or be accountable to anyone. One must meditate that time. It is irrelevant if this leads to enlightenment, or some such concept the conscious among us spend every living moment of theirs. Perhaps it exists, most probably it is an escape route for those who have lost all. Losing everything happens in a moment, but life is long. One has to live on. Some stay like a zombie, some search enlightenment by turning inwards, rejecting life and thus trying to gain a larger life.

Living like a zombie is not possible, seeking something bigger than life is extreme greed. But one must meditate. Meditation, in fact, is the automatic outcome of sadness. And it is a beautiful feeling.

I can't meditate, and I find it meaningless too. I don’t believe closing your eyes and sitting still brings you closer to your inner self. If that was so, every night when I sleep I would have reached my inner self and pleaded whatever is inside to guide me to be indifferent to everything around me.

I can’t meditate, but I must.

So I write. Moving my fingers in the keyboard and keeping the mind blank calms me down. I am writing now. I am meditating.

But I will put this on my blog. Why? Isn’t there a wish that someone will read it, someone will comment and I will feel good? Most definitely so.

I guess, my sadness is not complete. I guess I am one of those greedy people chasing enlightenment.

But then, I am also extremely lonely. I need someone to talk to. There are only a few I can talk to. My blog friends are the only ones I can think of.

I know whatever I have written here doesn’t make sense. Yet, I know you will try and get a meaning. At least you now know my state of mind. At least you know I am not happy.
I feel a little bit relieved that through these meaningless sentences I am able to convey whatever is going on inside me, which doesn’t have any name in English, or perhaps my vocabulary skill is not up to the mark.
Emptiness is too empty an expression for what I feel now, sadness is too shallow. Perhaps it is a different shade of loneliness. I don't want to turn into a psychological patient. So I must write to keep my therapy on. 

How I wished I was the stream of happiness for people around me. I am not. And I can never be. I am a narrow canal, which remains dry most of the time, in summer and in winter.

But during monsoons, I swell. And I destroy much before calming down. It is raining heavily. I am putting my dams.
I have a baby; I want her to grow up. I want to guide her and make her a good citizen of this world. I want to fulfil my promise to her that I made when we first met. She was just a few minutes old, me a veteran of 34 monsoons. She was the most beautiful work of art I had ever seen, small rainbow-colored bubbles popping from her red lips, her eyes shining like two stars. I bowed to her and promised ... 

One day I will tell her; I didn’t die because of my promise to you. I shall thank her for being there in my life. I should bow to her, and kiss her hands. She is my saviour.

And then I will be free. Like a man condemned to 25 years in prison, I count my days. I will have to remain alive, I will have to pull myself and continue with my life – not like a zombie, not like a selfish saint. But like a person who has no expectation from anyone and no love left. Only responsibilities, a handful of responsibilities.

For now, I meditate to remain alive. Please be there with me dear friends, till I am free.

One day I will be free for sure.