My mother at 65. Another birthday has passed: another year, another day and countless many will pass, no doubt. My mother will continue to age, rather graciously, if I may say so, yet, it would be foolish for me not to admit the scars that the wheel of time has left on her conscience. She came into this world long before my conception was ever thought of, and will definitely continue to impart her presence long after my being is one with dust.
So, the question that begs to be answered is: why now? Why go through this ordeal at her 65th birthday? Well, for one, I would say it is customary to celebrate birthdays in a way where people often multiply happiness by offering wishes and recounting experiences that have made the day special for them. I must admit though, I’ve never been one for custom, and there is certainly a bit of the old ‘rebellious’ streak in me, as pointed out by my numerous siblings. I have many siblings. 99 percent of these siblings don’t even know that I exist, or that we are part of a common brotherhood. It would be sufficient to conclude that we are not united by purpose, by blood, by bond or by acquaintance, yet we call ourselves ‘siblings’. Each of us has their separate families, responsibilities and priorities. Yet, without fail, we come together twice a year, on two separate days, on our mother’s birthday (15th August) and her anniversary (26th January) to commemorate and validate her existence, this Mother India of ours. But for the 363 days that tear us apart: in distance, in spirit, in thought, in action, in prejudice, in caste, creed, colour and religion, we are very much masters of our own destiny. For those 363 days, we are orphans, not because our Mother India is dead, she is very much alive: whenever a soldier goes on the battlefront, or a sports person puts all on the line or a single man thrives on the belief that he can bring about social change against all odds, the whole nation, with its countless ‘siblings’ rises.
Unfortunately, these instances are few and far between. For most of these 363 days, life goes on rather uneventfully. Youthful ‘enthusiasm’ is quelled and replaced by a supposed ‘mature’ understanding of the intricate workings of the system which teaches you how to work with the system rather than try to beat it. Hope gives way to cynicism, idealism gives way to alcoholism and worse comes to worse, one always have selective permeable vision to fall back upon. It takes years to perfect how to fine tune your vision so that you can tell your conscience that it’s a ‘bad, bad world out there’ and the best you can do is ‘just survive’. Just survive? Surely, that can’t be the trick. Insects, fish, birds and the countless other creatures who I come across every day, they‘just survive’. Surely, we are better than that. After all, we are humans. The problem is that we are content with mere ‘survival’. If we have the tools to provide for ourselves and our loved ones which guarantees our survival then we are content. India has become the playground for Hobbesian state of nature in action. Each man for himself. If this is what evolution leads to, then I want no part of it. You know, my dear brothers and sisters, we castrated our Mother a long time ago. India is a country that becomes a Nation only two days in a year.
I write these words not to move you into action. There may have been a time when words alone could stir a man into action but not anymore. Either they get renounced to history and English textbooks – to tell future generations of “glorious people and times past” or get tolerated on public forums by people who dally in idealistic indulgence. Which brings me back to the question: so, why now? You see, my fellow ‘siblings’, fortunately, this is one of those rare occasions when the spirit of our Mother has been re-awakened. I do not know how much one man can accomplish. However, I do applaud his discontentment at being asked to settle for mere ‘survival’. A more ‘enthusiastic’ person might say a revolution is brewing. I look forward to witnessing this re-vitalised spirit of our Mother India and be able to meet her gaze with my head held high.
Your prodigal 'rebellious' son - Virat
