of hope

So the fiancé met my parents yesterday. I’d like to think it went well, considering the warmth with which he hugged my father before he left, but it didn’t start that nicely.

I’ve never really thought much of my parents, and don’t get along with them at all. Mom was basically away a lot; she was (still is, actually) a struggling actor, which, by the way, I would happily give an eye and an arm to be. The thing is, she was really good and deserved more chances than she got, and I always sympathized with her on that front. The trouble is, she is always play-acting, and will mostly choose from among the following parts:

of (double) dates

You meet them through a common friend. You hit it off. They’re just like you; passionate, experimental, and full-of-life. You can see they like you too.

Could this be it? You look at each other and exchange we-have-finally-found-that-couple-we-were-looking-for looks.

They seem enamored enough now. Why don’t you guys come over for dinner next weekend?

Sure!

You know what that means. They will spend the night at your place. Ahem.

of violence

You see the Daily Post challenge on your reader, and almost thankful for the inspiration.

You begin to think back to a time when you are very little, you don’t remember how little exactly, and wake up to the sound of a bottle being smashed to bits against the door of your room. Screaming follows. Then suddenly, a strange silence and you can hear her plead with him not to be loud or you will wake up.

of legacies

So what do you want to be when you grow up? She asks as you nibble on the cookie.

A housewife.

A housewife? Mrs. Gupta’s eyes widen. Why, little girl, don’t you want to grow up and be a doctor or an engineer?

No, I want to be a housewife. All I want to do is laze around all day and take care of my house and family. I want to learn to knit, too! But I won’t have any children. Children are a nuisance. They laugh. Your mother is visibly embarrassed. She mumbles something that sounds suspiciously like an apology, and continues to serve platter after platter of food, hoping it will erase all memory of her teenage daughter being so unambitious, not wanting to do anything significant.

After they’ve gone, she reprimands you for being cocky in front of her friends.

So you don’t want to be a doctor or an engineer? Look at Divya didi. Look at Anuj bhaiya. They’re earning so well! What will you do? Why, if you’re not going to work, no dreams to live for, what better use is there to your life? Might as well leave something behind in the world as legacy. But not even wanting children! Hey bhagwan! What am I going to do with this girl?

You’re sitting in a corner, sulking. You want to answer her questions. You want to tell her how much you detest picking up a profession just because women these days should be “independent”, whatever that means.

What your mother doesn’t understand is that you do have dreams, but they’ve got nothing to do with being a doctor or an engineer. All you want is to stay home and write, your head bent over a notebook, clutching a pencil and scribbling, scribbling, scribbling until you’re dead.

But she doesn’t understand. What she does not understand is that children will never be your legacy. They will belong to their father, not to you. Like you belong to yours. You took his surname, after all.

That’s not the legacy you want to leave behind.