Another personal rant, inspired by a recent article and all the 'what are your plans' that seem to haunt me these days.
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As tears flowed down my cheeks, I
stared, stunned at the computer screen. Everyone has a story, I thought. Tales
browned with age and skeletons in the closest of various shapes and sizes.
Stories of strength and courage are camouflaged under bright kurtis and wide
smiles. Who is to tell? Who can see beneath the surface and count the scars?
Who can read the signs and tell the tale?
They say it should bring us
happiness, security, love. They tell us it is the first step of the rest of our
lives. They say it changes the person we are, for the better, mind you. They
build these tall fairytales and push us into the deep end of the pool. Some of
us know how to paddle, others to float. Who can claim to be the Olympian?
This elusive concept of happiness
has always intrigued me. What does it mean? Where do we get it? Which path
leads us to this elusive goal? Apparently, Western thought claims the problem
with parenting today is the goal of ‘happiness’ – your child is never going to
be happy enough and you will thus be a perennial failure. As we grow up, we say
it all the time, either as the truth or in the hope that the sound will
transform into reality. Yes, I am happy. I love what I’m doing, it keeps me
happy. Today was such a great day, I’m so happy! You look so...happy. The cynic
in me is fast classifying these five letters to the list of lazy words my high
school teacher drilled into us – nice, good...happy.
What if all I need is a Rs. 10
packet of beach cotton candy to be happy? Or molagga bhajji on a rainy day? A
nice fat tome with a steaming mug of hot chocolate, perhaps? A paper well
written, a presentation well made? Children wishing me as I walk into the class? What if my pleasure comes from the smaller
things, the details? My chosen raindrop winning the race down the car window or
the mango I ate being just ripe enough? Maanga having the perfect twang of salt
and spice? An old pair of jeans buttoning snugly again or a crisply washed Rs.
20 note in a forgotten pocket? A phone call from an old friend or a good
morning text from the unexpected? What if all it takes to keep me happy is
normalcy, the mundane?
Who are you to define the rules,
lay down the laws? Why must my happiness adhere to your restrictions? I could
be poor, single, unemployed and ugly. Who are you to say I can’t be happy?
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