Pritam's Blog
The Inescapable Fate Of A Rebellious Mind
I read Taslima Nasrin’s Amar Meyebela (My Girlhood) when I was around 13-14 years old, I guess. This was the first time I had read something so raw yet poetic, something so brutally and fearlessly honest. I was amazed. And I remember thinking that I would be this honest in my writing. I decided that I would write truthfully with no feeling of shame or fear.
My mom, I remember, who had read just a few pages of the book, vehemently refused to accept that there was even an iota of truth in Nasrin’s writings. She was so sure about it.
I mean the way she reacted, it seemed like, Taslima Nasrin was actually commissioned to write my mom’s biography and she (my mom) felt all dejected for Nasrin didn’t do her job well - she wrote a bunch of lies. I will never forget the authority and anger in my mom’s voice as she said, “Ita shob misaa maath, shob misaa kotha lekhse tai…” (It’s all lie, she’s written a bunch of lies.)
I was 14 years old. I was charged with testosterone and probably, no matter how many times I say that I never exhibited any traits of toxic masculinity in my life, had some desire in my subconscious to mimic and even accept patriarchy.
At the same time, I had just acquired a sense of the beauty of artistic honesty and integrity.
So, I knew it was my mom who was lying. Especially because her denial of patriarchy and the associated harassment, humiliation and violence contradicted with her otherwise not-at-all submissive life with my father.
As I grew up, I could never forget this particular incident, probably because it was my mom who, in some way or the other, tried to imbibe in me an extreme sense of right and wrong.
Anyway, I realized writing truthfully, especially, about yourself isn’t something every writer is capable of doing.
Not every writer can write about their deepest fears and shame and regrets. And I am not even talking about the usual fears, shame, and regrets. But something that goes deeper than that. Thoughts and memories, which if entertained can take a toll on one’s mental health.
Doesn’t matter if you are writing it anonymously. It’s not about revealing your identity, it’s not about sharing these thoughts and memories with others and embarrassing yourself. It’s not about risking your image.
It’s about revealing them to yourself and not putting them aside or burying them deep under learned social behavior, like most of us do.
I wanted to entertain these thoughts and memories. I wanted to push myself out of my comfort zone. I was OK with the idea of going crazy in the process.
I remember how six years back I quit my safe and secured engineering career to become a full-time writer. My family said I was not serious about my career. My friends said it was brave. Some people laughed behind my back. Others said go for it. A few held my hands making the next three years of my life a little easier. All of them said it was rebellious - the word having a positive or negative connotation depending upon who said it.
But I think with passing time, this passion that I had for writing died a little. Or maybe I became more practical. I still wanted to write. But now I just wanted to earn my living with my writings.
I am doing pretty good. With little more than three years of experience, I am earning more than many people in this profession having 5-6 years of experience are earning. I might not be rich and successful yet but I guess I am heading towards the right direction.
But amidst all these, the rebel in me, the one that once wanted to make a difference with his brutally honest writing, is lost somewhere.
I am 30 and despite being deeply passionate about writing for as long as I remember, I haven’t written anything remarkable, anything that people will remember me for.
And the worst part is it doesn’t kill me like I once thought it would. I am absolutely comfortable, in fact, happy with my life.
That’s sad, isn’t it? Even though I am not sad about it…
I think the ultimate purpose, probably even the inescapable fate, of most rebellious lives, after prolonged period of self-promotion as passionate people, is to achieve a state of rotten happiness and carefully calibrated contentment cocooned in the comforts of their exaggerated sense of mediocrity.
I ended up like one of those who refuses to leave the box and yet stresses upon the importance of thinking out of the box.
And I am Ok with it…