Skip to main content

Dear Boy


Dear Boy,

The first time I saw you was in the Kabir House of SPS. I was on my usual evening tutor [counsellor] duty and the House Assistant pointed you out to me. You were sitting on one of those few chairs in the small office and weeping like a child. You wanted to meet your mother. You were new to the residential school system.

I was quite surprised to see the tears flowing down your cheeks because you were quite a big boy. Physically too big for class 8. I understood soon from the little conversation which I had there that you had been pampered too much by your parents since you were their only child. You were their treasure. You took advantage of that and misbehaved so badly that your parents were forced to send you to a residential school.

I noticed the book in your hand, however. Harry Potter. Your personal copy. Your precious personal possession. Your identity mark in a residential school where most students didn’t bother to read even the textbooks for completing their homework. SPS had its own system of bullying. You just became a victim because of your innocence. And your intelligence. The world doesn’t love intelligence.

And then you grew up in that system. You grew up to become another bully. You stopped reading. You started fighting instead. In order to survive. You had to, because your parents refused to take you back from the school in spite of all the maudlin phone calls you gave them from the Kabir House cubicle whenever you got a chance to do so. Your parents were wise. You didn’t understand them, however, I think.

You could have been the best student in SPS. But you chose to fight with little things. You became a ruffian in the process. Even I became scared of you eventually. You don’t know perhaps that the whole school administration was worried about you. I still remember the day when you left the school after class 10 exams. You told me that you admired me. I was astounded. I didn’t believe you. Yet I thought there was something good inside you which made you say that. Your father once wrote to me to say that you had a lot of respect for me.

Two years later you gave me a call and said that you wanted to talk to me personally. You said that you were ready to travel all the way to Kerala just to meet me and talk to me. I put you on hold. In the meanwhile I learnt that you had become a drug addict.

I recommended professional counselling to you the next time you called me. I think you hated me because of that. Now you question everything that I write on Facebook against a particular political party. Questioning is fine. But I wish your questions came from the depths of your heart.

Probe your depths, dear. That’s the only way to save yourself. I’m not your bully. The world is not a bully if you know how to deal with it. If you don’t know that, keep yourself away from the world and pursue your own interests as I do. Read Harry Potter or whatever you like. Write in order to express yourself. Create your own meanings. There’s no other way ahead. Stop hating people at the very least.

You are fortunate to have parents who support you all through. But I would like you to go beyond that support. And be yourself. Discover yourself. Discover the beauty within you. Discover the divinity within you. Just try that at least. Please.


Comments

  1. I wish the boy had stopped being the typical adolescent Spsite! It is clear from the blog that the firefly attempts to conquer the light in stead of going in search of it.

    Dear Ex Kabirian, Jalebee jyada mat khana yaar!

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Some people grow very slowly. I was also like that.

      Delete
  2. A great story with a lot of message. At the end of the day an individual has to take charge of his / her life. Parents can provide opportunity, but only that. One can take a horse to water, but it is the horse who has to drink.

    ReplyDelete

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Pranita a perverted genius

Bulldozer begins its work at Sawan Pranita was a perverted genius. She had Machiavelli’s brain, Octavian’s relentlessness, and Levin’s intellectual calibre. She could have worked wonders if she wanted. She could have created a beautiful world around her. She had the potential. Yet she chose to be a ruthless exterminator. She came to Sawan Public School just to kill it. A religious cult called Radha Soami Satsang Beas [RSSB] had taken over the school from its owner who had never visited the school for over 20 years. This owner, a prominent entrepreneur with a gargantuan ego, had come to the conclusion that the morality of the school’s staff was deviating from the wavelengths determined by him. Moreover, his one foot was inching towards the grave. I was also told that there were some domestic noises which were grating against his patriarchal sensibilities. One holy solution for all these was to hand over the school and its enormous campus (nearly 20 acres of land on the outskirts

Machiavelli the Reverend

Let us go today , you and I, through certain miasmic streets. Nothing will be quite clear along our way because this journey is through some delusions and illusions. You will meet people wearing holy robes and talking about morality and virtues. Some of them will claim to be god’s men and some will make taller claims. Some of them are just amorphous. Invisible. But omnipotent. You can feel their power around you. On you. Oppressing you. Stifling you. Reverend Machiavelli is one such oppressive power. You will meet Franz Kafka somewhere along the way. Joseph K’s ghost will pass by. Remember Joseph K who was arrested one fine morning for a crime that nobody knew anything about? Neither Joseph nor the men who arrest him know why Joseph K is arrested. The power that keeps Joseph K under arrest is invisible. He cannot get answers to his valid questions from the visible agents of that power. He cannot explain himself to that power. Finally, he is taken to a quarry outside the town wher

Levin the good shepherd

AI-generated image The lost sheep and its redeemer form a pet motif in Christianity. Jesus portrayed himself as a good shepherd many times. He said that the good shepherd will leave his 99 sheep in order to bring the lost sheep back to the fold. When he finds the lost sheep, the shepherd is happier about that one sheep than about the 99, Jesus claimed. He was speaking metaphorically. The lost sheep is the sinner in Jesus’ parable. Sin is a departure from the ‘right’ way. Angels raise a toast in heaven whenever a sinner returns to the ‘right’ path [Luke 15:10]. A lot of Catholic priests I know carry some sort of a Redeemer complex in their souls. They love the sinner so much that they cannot rest until they make the angels of God run for their cups of joy. I have also been fortunate to have one such priest-friend whom I shall call Levin in this post. He has befriended me right from the year 1976 when I was a blundering adolescent and he was just one year older than me. He possesse

Queen of Religion

She looked like Queen Victoria in the latter’s youth but with a snow-white head. She was slim, fair and graceful. She always smiled but the smile had no life. Someone on the campus described it as a “plastic smile.” She was charming by physical appearance. Soon all of us on the Sawan school campus would realise how deceptive appearances were. Queen took over the administration of Sawan school on behalf of her religious cult RSSB [Radha Soami Satsang Beas]. A lot was said about RSSB in the previous post. Its godman Gurinder Singh Dhillon is now 70 years old. I don’t know whether age has mellowed his lust for land and wealth. Even at the age of 64, he was embroiled in a financial scam that led to the fall of two colossal business enterprises, Fortis Healthcare and Religare finance. That was just a couple of years after he had succeeded in making Sawan school vanish without a trace from Delhi which he did for the sake of adding the school’s twenty-odd acres of land to his existing hun

Nakulan the Outcast

Nakulan was one of the many tenants of Hevendrea . A professor in the botany department of the North Eastern Hill University, he was a very lovable person. Some sense of inferiority complex that came from his caste status made him scoff the very idea of his lovability. He lived with his wife and three children in one of Heavendrea’s many cottages. When he wanted to have a drink, he would walk over to my hut. We sipped our whiskies and discussed Shillong’s intriguing politics or something of the sort while my cassette player crooned gently in the background. Nakulan was more than ten years my senior by age. He taught a subject which had never aroused my interest at any stage of my life. It made no difference to me whether a leaf was pinnately compound or palmately compound. You don’t need to know about anther and stigma in order to understand a flower. My friend Levin would have ascribed my lack of interest in Nakulan’s subject to my egomania. I always thought that Nakulan lived