Confessions of a serial escapist living in modern India

I’ve a few confessions to make, and I consciously chose the dead of the night to do that. No, I don’t want to wake you up from your sleep because I very well know how blissful it is to be asleep. Trust me, I too have been in a state of deep sleep until I came to know that I was sick.

In fact, I’ve been sick forever but no one was able to diagnose the ailment. Unfortunately, it was me who finally identified my invisible ailment after being told for years that “nothing’s wrong with you”. I don’t know how many of you suffer from the same disease and are aware of it but trust me it’s better if your condition remains undiagnosed.

Even though I know and can immediately identify all those with similar symptoms, I won’t mar your peace of mind by telling you that.

No, I’m not on medication but have resorted to alternative therapy and it’s working. Every once in a while when I feel a lump in my throat I run to the nearest possible corner (where no one can hear me) and confess to the wall, pour out all my guilt. With that my life seems to be normal again while I pretend to be fit (in my mind).

Pretension helps not just to live on but also to enjoy life. I didn’t know I was so good at it. Until I was diagnosed with it, I too was blissfully oblivious. I would evade every responsibility and manage to escape every time with impunity. Actually, it was quite easy. I would take a moral high ground for everything that happened around me and pretended that everyone else, but I could do it. I’ll tell you how.

Every time a woman in my country got raped or molested, I shared my outrage and shock with friends, including on social media. I made my stand clear but when I would come back home, I was oblivious to the sufferings of my wife. How she struggled to make peace with my indifference. How when we would go out on those fancy dineouts and someone would stare at her lecherously, I not just ignored, but also refused to acknowledge her discomfort. It was my silent request to her to sit and remain unaffected because “these things happen”.

I remember once she even told me that she could feel someone’s hand touching her back in a crowded metro, but she didn’t complain again after I told her “home is just two stations away”. When we went to see a movie, I can’t remember the name, in which a husband and wife run into goons only because the wife convinces the husband to go to the rescue of another couple calling for help. “How stupid was that, calling for trouble. Didn’t she know that you are not supposed to stop your car if somebody’s calling for help. Most of the times they are members of some brute gang,” I told her in a stern voice so that she would remember the valuable lesson all her life.

But it’s not that I was insensitive to pain. I poured my heart out on Facebook when I saw the picture of a lifeless Alan Kurdi in 2015. The picture of the young Syrian boy washed up on a Turkish beach moved me to tears. “What was happening to the world?” I remember talking about the child in some of my weekend intellectual discourses with friends over wine. I also posted a picture of him and followed his father’s stories for some time, only to forget Kurdi and the refugee crisis in the next few days.

I was reminded of the Syrian boy again yesterday when pictures of Mohammed Shohayet, a 16-month-old Rohingya refugee, went viral. The boy, with his face down in the mud, made me search for the word Rohingya. Even though I still can’t pronounce it, I came to know about the “Rohingya” crisis. So, I reposted a picture immediately with the caption “Will someone take notice now”.

Yet while going to office every day, I ignore the small boy sitting outside the metro station. Even though he begs me for money every day without fail, I quickly run up the flight of stairs to catch my train. For years, I have told myself that “I can’t afford to lose my precious ten-rupee notes over beggars who have the option to work and earn their meals.”

And these days I’ve an even better excuse – demonetisation. How can I afford to give away cash when it has become the hottest commodity? While I waited at a CCD outlet for my banker cousin to withdraw some money for me on “priority basis” without having me to stand in a queue, I cribbed and cribbed on Facebook (with an anonymous ID) about the huge inconvenience to the common man created by the government’s sudden decision.

But I tried to strike a balance (of views) and never criticised the government or the prime minister in public. Why to get into unnecessary trouble? After all, in my country, inconvenience has become an established norm.

But then since childhood I’ve been living with another inconvenient truth — of one country, many different people. I could never understand what everybody seemed to be professing — unity in diversity. Even though I could hardly see any unity in the diversity and always aspired to study and settle abroad, I religiously used to lead the morning assembly in school which ended with the Indian national pledge, “I’m an Indian, India is my country and all Indians are my brothers and sisters…”

Despite all the right words and moves, I wonder why do I still feel a lump in my throat. And the discomfort has only increased in the past few days.

Also read: Drowned Rohingya child brings back chilling image of Aylan Kurdi