I am my father's daughter, not your 'martyr’s daughter'
Who am I?
A question, I could’ve answered without any inhibitions or a trace of wariness in my standard cheerful tone only a few weeks ago. Now, I’m not so sure.
Am I who the trolls think I am?
Am I what the media has portrayed me as?
Am I what those celebrities think of me?
No, I can’t be any of that. That girl you saw flashing all over your television screens, holding a placard in hand, eyebrows raised, gaze fixed at the tiny round lens of a cellphone camera, definitely looked like me. The intensity of her thoughts that reflected in the picture definitely had traces of me. She looked fiery, I relate to that but then the "breaking news headlines" told a different story. The headlines were not me.
Martyr’s daughter
Martyr’s daughter
Martyr’s daughter
I’m my father’s daughter. I’m my papa’s Gulgul. I’m his doll. I’m a two-year-old artist who did not understand words but understood stick figures, which he drew in letters addressed to me. I’m my mother’s headache, her opinionated, reckless, moody child - a reflection of her. I’m my sister’s guide to pop culture and her sparring partner before the big matches.
I’m also the girl who sits on the first bench during lectures with intentions of interrupting the teacher and starting fiery debates on everything and anything, just because literature is more fun that way. My friends sort-of-kind-of like me, I’m hoping. They say my humour is dry but works on certain days (I can live with that). Books and poetry are my solace.
A bibliophile, the library at home is overflooding, and my biggest concern for the last few months has been how to convince Mom to let me shift her lamps and picture frames to create another shelf.
I’m an idealist. An athlete. A peacenik. I’m not your angry, vindictive war-mongering bechari you hoped me to be. I don’t want war because I know its price; it’s very expensive. Trust me I know better because I’ve paid it every day. Still do. There is no bill for it, maybe if there was, some wouldn’t hate me so much. Numbers make it more believable.
The news channel polls screaming, “IS GURMEHAR’S PAIN RIGHT OR WRONG?” with a certain vote ratio as a result makes so much more sense to us normal public.
And hey! What’s the value of our suffering in front of that? If 51 per cent people think I’m wrong, then I must be wrong. In that case, God knows who’s polluting my mind.
Papa is not here with me; he hasn’t been for 18 years. My limited vocabulary of about 200 words learnt new words called death, war and Pakistan on the days following August 6, 1999. For obvious reasons it did take me a few years to actually understand the implied definition of them. I say implied because, honestly, does anyone even know their true meaning? I live it and I’m still trying to figure it out especially in the sense of the world.
My father’s a martyr but I don’t know him as that. I know him as the man who wore big cargo jackets with pockets full of sweets, whose stubble scratched my nose every time he kissed my forehead, a teacher who taught me how to sip from a straw and introduced me to chewing gum. I know him as my father. I also know him as the shoulder my tiny self clung to extremely tightly, hoping if I held him strongly enough he won’t go. He went. He just didn’t come back.
My father is a martyr. I’m his daughter.
But.
I am not your “Martyr’s Daughter”.
(The post first appeared on Gurmehar Kaur's blog.)