Choice

I got a video forwarded on whatsapp today. It’s likely that you’ve seen it. It’s about this fashion store where they replace all their displayed clothes with black t-shirts, all in the same size. Customers come and ask for something they saw on their previous visit to the store, but they are met with the same reply by the staff, that they only have black tees. Some customers ask to see the manager, who, surprisingly, turns out to be a kid. The kid apologizes to the customer and says that when the choice of clothes is taken away from you, you get so agitated, imagine how difficult it must be for me when my parents don’t give me the choice of my career! The video made me cry.

I love my parents. I was a good kid. Loving and compassionate. I never made any irrational demands or threw a tantrum for expensive toys. My parents too did their part by sending me to a good school. I’ll forever be grateful for that. But I never had any choice. This did not hit me till I passed out of school. I had secured good marks in my class 12 boards. Good enough to get admission in a good course in one of the prestigious colleges of Delhi University. I remember the admission forms of these colleges being torn before me. I remember the horror stories of Delhi kids becoming drug addicts. Before I knew it I was in a local college dragging through lectures I didn’t care for.

There’s a cultural night at college, can I go? No. my friend is throwing a birthday party, can I go? No. Wearing jeans? You must be out of your frikkin mind! When you can’t even wear pajamas at home, how can you dream of wearing jeans? Ok, can I at least go out and get a haircut from a good salon? Haha. You must be kidding! Don’t talk too loud. Don’t laugh so hard. Don’t come out when we have guests visiting. Don’t find a job. Don’t. Just don’t. Don’t breathe!

It’s a miracle that I lived through that. Books helped me survive. The world of stories I immersed myself in gave me hope. Books gave me dreams. Possibilities. I started to write. Poems, mostly. It was an outlet so I could feel normal. I took all the angst I felt inside and turned it into words on my laptop screen. Poem after poem, I sent a part of myself out into the world in the form of my blog every now and then. It pulled some awesome people into my life. People who are now my close friends. Who at my most vulnerable time were there to hold my hand and not let me drown. But I digress.

Choice. It seems so simple on the surface. So disgustingly obvious. You always have a choice, they say. I still have difficulty believing that. Was it that I never had a choice or that I didn’t know any better? Or perhaps it was a bit of both. I still can’t say. Getting over my growing up years is one of the toughest things I’ve done. To come to terms with it. To accept it as it was and move on. And most importantly, to forgive my parents for unknowingly scarring me for life. Because scarred I am. Why else would I cry watching that video?