The reluctant rebel

For as long as Ritwik remembered, he had never had a say in his life.

The earliest memories went back to his school days. He lived with his family in a small town of Uttarakhand, a state in northern India. For a family of five, the house felt like a mansion to Ritwik and Reena, then five and three respectively. Low white buildings, with multiple interconnected rooms, and plenty of space allowed him and his sister to run wild in the house. Adjacent to their home was a temple, constructed by the boy’s forefathers, maintained by his parents, where the children were allowed to enter only under adult supervision. Even though the siblings couldn’t play inside the temple…the high ceiling and the smell of incense evoked a sense of faith even among the children. Both the house and the temple occupied only a small portion of the apple and mango orchard owned by the family.

As the first born, Ritwik was the apple of his grandfather’s eyes. His Baba would plonk him on his shoulders and take him for a round of the orchard. He’d explain about trees, about judging soil quality, and even about locating a cheetah’s pug mark on the damp earth. Weather in the foothills was almost always perfect for outdoor games. And even for spotting hundreds of insects and plucking off their limbs one by one in close and confidential collaboration with Reena. Ritwik’s first five years were the stuff of illustration found in children’s books. The late and elaborate brunches made by Ma. The terse responses of Papa. The indulgences with Baba. The air that felt perfect on the skin. Whenever he was asked to fold his hand in worship before god, he really thanked God for giving him his Baba, parents, Reena and the orchard.

And then, in a brutal change of scene, he was pried away from his home.

That was thirty years ago. Though Ritwik has only faint memories of his childhood, he can never forget the gay abandon of those days. The feeling of happiness that he felt then, and never felt again. Where did he go wrong? He was 35, and flecks of grey hair had begun appearing in the hair around his temple. It was about time he reflected.

………………………………………….

He had protested, kicked, and cried when the idea was proposed. Apparently, his intelligence at pre-primary school had dug the grave of his happiness. His parents made up their mind that the boy deserved better than a small town education, and that he had to be sent off to a boarding school. Reena’s howling hadn’t helped. Baba’s feeble opposition didn’t count. When Ritwik had refused to eat his food the second day, Papa had growled, ‘don’t you create a bloody scene.’ Couldn’t he have known, shouldn’t he have known, that taste and flavor had departed from Ritwik’s life at the mention of boarding school? He had forced the morsel down, feeling nothing except the hollow, rusty taste of terror. His worst nightmares were coming true.

An agonizing month later, even before his sixth birthday, Ritwik had found himself herded by strange hands among unknown crowd of children, in a sickeningly white building with linoleum flooring. That building was to be his home for the next eleven years. Gone were the cool shade under the mango tree. The smell of moist earth when Baba bathed him under the open tap. Ritwik would break down and then gather himself night after night. He was sent there to make his family proud, is what Baba had said. It had to be true then. He had to sacrifice his foolish happiness at the altar of family pride. Besides, he had tortured many insects to death. His karma had wreaked its vengeance. He should have listened to Ma.

Years passed and Ritwik’s days went by in a haze. He visited home every now and then, but he didn’t let the tendons of emotional dependency grow back again. He amputated the part of his heart that longed for home. That was the only tool in his survival kit. At school, he aced the class every year. He earned a reputation of being a nerdy loner. He made no friends, for a part of him feared affiliation of any kind. He thought he had prepared his heart to suffer any setback. That was an underestimation.

When Ritwik graduated to high school, his hostel changed. The new hostel was dominated by a gang of rogue seniors, who ragged new joiners like Ritwik in various masochistic ways. Complaining to hostel warden was not an option, it was told. Legends had it, that boys who complained, were boycotted by the entire school. Anyone who dared come close to them could be whipped sore. In one of those ragging nights, Ritwik was asked to strip. He complied, till he was only in his underwear. The seniors didn’t relent. For the second time in his life, Ritwik felt the bile of wrath rise in his body. He calmly gathered his clothes, told his seniors that he would tell the warden if it happened again, and went back to his room. In the ensuing two years of high school, Ritwik lived in complete and stoic silence.

Much to his relief, school was over. Ritwik’s dad filled up his forms for writing competitive exams to crack a seat in India’s best medical colleges. He wanted Ritwik to open a clinic in his home state; a clinic that could be the pride of his family lineage. Once again, Ritwik complied. Given his academics, getting into the top college was no difficult. Four years later, without really wanting to ameliorate humanity’s pain, Ritwik took the Hippocratic Oath. Once his post graduation was also done, Ritwik worked endless hours in the largest government hospital earning the much needed ‘experience’ to run his own clinic. Five years later, he found himself back in Uttarakhand, in a spic and span clinic constructed by his father.

And that his when his bride-to-be was also ushered in his life. Seeing the pretty girl before him, Ritwik’s gut turned just like it had revolted when he was being sent to a boarding school. Run, his instinct had screamed. ‘Comply,’ his senses had proffered. Once again, he capitulated.

How many times had he paused to take stock of his life? Why had he surrendered to the choices of his father? If it was not to evade the responsibility of thinking for himself and living and succeeding in that life, what was it? Wasn’t he to blame for what he had made of his life? Could he really not have cried his way back to his home at the age of six?

………………………………………….

There is an utter calm in his mind as he’s walking towards the family court. Ritwik is smiling to himself. Pleased that his ‘mind is finally like a clear blue sky and he can watch his thoughts floating by like clouds on the sky,’ as his meditation instructor would say. He is going to file a petition for divorce today. He’s never been surer.

None of the old rancor remains. He feels settled, finally. He feels at home in his own body. The orchard, the temple, the childhood – he has made peace with his memories – and enshrined them in a special corner of his heart. He is aware that he should have divorced many things years ago. The forced exile to boarding school. The harassing old boys. The choice of career.

A start had to be made, he tells himself. His family had indeed created a scene. Ma was distraught, Papa was fuming. Only Reena understood. ‘How can not loving someone be a reason to break a marriage?’ was the question he was asked.

He had placed his palms on his father’s shoulder with genuine love. And answered before leaving behind the wife and the clinic. ‘Just like never asking a person about his choice can break him.’