I had a dream once, made me feel alive again. This is what I aspire for. The white cloudy thoughts to turn into reality one day. Here it goes..
“Opened my diary to unfold the old sheets,
Some torn pages, some neat,
The dried ink and the unfinished word,
Oh! My tears made the diary alive,
For, how long it waited to be written in, at 5.
Sadly, the tears were all that I could pen-down,
The lost wish, the pending poem.”
Recited this in my family function and gazed at my aunt, the weight of guilt made her eyes bow. Everyone applauded and congratulated me for winning the competition. My first book was published and the function was an honor. Flashbacks hit me when I remembered my past.
It was the same place, where I was being given a two hour lecture about how writers have no stable future and that my poetry should just exist in my diary, not on my mind. My dad got really happy every time I wrote a poem; he would look at my diary and smile. But, never did I see that sense of satisfaction he got when he looked at my elder sister who was an engineer and a MBA. I always thought something was missing. My dad was in his college band, when I say band in the 80’s in India, I mean a tabla, tambour, flute, pump organ.
He was an all-rounder. Almost every instrument related to classical music was his forte. My dad is so talented, *sobs*
I wondered about his certificates and prizes just sitting on a shelf in his cupboard; not being able to prove his talent, regret because he could not make a career of his choice? My worries weren’t limited to this, one burst out was all I needed to clear things out and question him as to, why wasn’t he supportive of my writing? It’s okay for it to be a hobby but not a career? But I didn’t have to, everything was already answered. It’s usual for parents to behave this way. Either expecting you to fulfill their dream or to avoid you from making the same mistakes they did. But was he really helping me? My motivation was my dad and his incomplete dream. I understood that what interests me is not enough to form a successful career, his concern wasn’t wrong, no parent wants to see their child starve to death. I knew what I had to do. My focus was clear.
An open letter to my aunt who tried to put me down, because, I chose to not follow the conventional way of building my career. No, I haven’t achieved anything yet, but yes I will. I won’t let my dad believe that a talent like his would go unnoticed, that his fear of me failing in life won’t come true; that an artist can change the world; a pen, a paint brush or a flute. Nothing goes wasted.
My inspiration- My Dad.