Parents! You Just Can’t Escape Them

Parents! You Just Can't Escape Them

I found my sister after almost 15 years. It so happened that I was getting nasty comments on Facebook like, “awful pic,” “act yr age…..yr not 4 anymor,” “u luk trash,” etc. etc. I knew it was someone from India because only Indians used sms lingo to this extent, but when this Facebook user, named ITGirl, wrote “yr hair is dizasta…if I wer u I wud av shaved my hed,” I was certain it could be none else but my sister, Binodini.

I had cut all my ties with her when I was 23 and she was 16. The reason was that she had burned my dupatta out of spite while ironing, because she didn’t have clothes of her liking to wear at the Satyanarayana vrata katha, a religious function, in the neighborhood.

Now, I sent her a message, “Binno, I know it’s you. I don’t want to hear from you. Stop messing with me.”

She asked for forgiveness, and reiterated the claim that, though she used to get jealous of all the attention and praise that I received, and would suffer indignity when I bullied her, the dupatta was burned by mistake. We exchanged our address and phone numbers only to discover that we lived in the same community. And lo, within 15 minutes, she landed at our home.

The young sapling that I remembered had now grown into a big banyan tree. She was smartly dressed in a business suit and had complemented it with expensive accessories such as earrings, watch, rings, handbag, iPhone, and shoes. I was in my best pajamas, as buying them is my only shopping expertise. My daughter, Hena, was highly impressed by her newfound Aunt.

Binodini said that she had still not forgiven Mom and Dad for marrying her off to a boy of their choice, and that she hadn’t gotten over the one she was in love with. “You were like a cow.” She pointed the gun at me, and changed my status from a ferocious cat to a subdued cow in one shot. “You set a bad example for all of us.”

“What could’ve I done? It was the only way to get out of that oppressive regime,” I said meekly, although, I remembered my siblings were happy to be rid of me, and sympathized with my husband. The youngest one even gave him a tip, that if we were to have an argument he should make sure to keep the hard objects like comb, scissors, or belan, the rolling pin, out of my reach.

But I could see that Binodini considered me a fellow victim, as she continued her diatribe, “Parents think they are acting in the best interest of their children and end up mangling their lives. They are so eager to make life decisions for their progenies. They teach you to talk, teach you to walk, and then ask you to shut up and not to go far. They clip your wings, discourage your passions, and lead you into a life of mediocrity. Indians are still stuck in the age-old traditions. They are more worried about the damn society than the happiness of their own children. Moreover, they want you to believe that some out-of-this-world caricatures--about whom they might have learned from their own parents or found mentioned in some outdated holy books--control your life.” She stopped to catch her breath. I offered her water. After taking a few sips she started again, “They give you an eccentric name and you have to live with it all your life. Whoever names a girl Binodini anyway?”

“Yes, and Giribala. I used to feel proud that Dad had named us after Rabindranath Tagore’s characters until I read his stories. But think about it, even if someone gave his child the most modern name, it would be two decades old and out of fashion when he or she becomes an adult.”

“Not only that, they begin to play with your life even before you are born. They give you all sort of genetic diseases and unsavory traits like bad hair, bad skin, poor eyesight, weight problem. Look, how much weight I had put on. I have been diagnosed with high cholesterol and diabetes. I think, my blood sugar level has dropped. Can I have something to eat?”

“Go help yourself. Meanwhile, I’ll have a look at Hena’s school project.” I realized later that I shouldn’t have had let her in the kitchen alone, because she finished all the food that I had cooked for my family of three, and we had to make do with Maggi instant noodles for dinner that night.

“You know Mom,” Hena said after Binodini had gone to the kitchen, “There is an expiry date on blaming your parents for steering you in the wrong direction. The moment you are old enough to take the wheel, responsibility lies with you.”

“Hunh?” I was stumped. “What was that?

“J. K. Rowling’s Harvard University commencement speech,” she said proudly.

“I think the Harry Potter writer knows nothing about Indian society.”

“Maybe, yes.” Hena then looked at me as if she was going to share something confidential. “I have Indian friends whose parents are too controlling. They don’t respect their children’s privacy. They even keep check on their phone conversation and text messages.” She didn’t divulge the name of her friends, though. Kids these days follow strict code of conduct.

Binodini came back reenergized. “Parents! You just can’t escape them. Now, I have to deal with my husband’s parents. This is the worst form of oppression. They won’t mend their ways even in their old age. They play favorites and spoil your relationship with your siblings.”

“Enough,” Hena jumped in.” Stop blaming your parents for everything, and get a hold on your life. Your parents lives might have had been even more messed up by their own parents. They are not super human. Move on. Don’t cry over the hand you have been dealt, rather learn to play as best as you can. Be independent and take responsibilities for your actions.”

There was complete silence for a moment, and then, while Binodini was still gaping at her, I asked, “Where did you get so much wisdom from?”

“That's what my school counselor said," she replied, "when I had gone to her with my complaints against you.”

Both of us sisters took a deep sigh and said, “Our parents didn’t even send us to schools that had counselors.”

(Picture: A still from the movie, Kabhi Khushi Kabhi Gham, Courtesy apunkachoice.com)