As I stood on a not so busy road, early at 5:45 A.M., I made a number of dumbfounding revelations which left me ashamed of what I had become as I enter my sophomore year. Purported to be a morning walk with my father, what it turned out to be was an introspective swim deep in the ocean of my conscience. In the few initial minutes we walked in an eerie haunting silence. The playful chirruping of the birds sounded as if they were accusing me early in the morning how it was his same chirpy girl, who just a decade back would not take her school bag off her shoulder till she had narrated even the most trivial of incidents which had taken place that day. And this process of re-iteration would not cease until she had repeated it twice more for her mother and sister. That was the enthusiasm then, which seemed today, as if had been abducted grievously. Agonising it was to see how hard it had become to break the ice with my own father. Had I moved so away from him, or was I too lazy to even strike a conversation with the man with whom ever since childhood I would have exchanged much more than a million words. I flinched at that thought. What a pitiable creature I was headed to become. It wasn’t as if I had nothing to say, I did, foremost that my shoes were hurting me so much and that if I walked more they’ll sore with bruises in a few minutes. Yet, I didn’t. For I was too embarrassed, maybe it would suggest to him that I was shirking away, which I used to but only when I was tender, at the helm of pure innocence. But today why did I let that thought even cross my mind? Was I getting pretentious even in front of my own father? Why was I conscious of what an impression I would implant before him? Of lately, I have come to blame a lot of things on account of my nascent laziness. I remember a poem I had read when I was a kid, Mr. Nobody it was called, wherein the protagonist, a small child, would blame everything on Mr. Nobody. Coming to realise, how blatantly I have incorporated that, of all the poems, I have ever read in my life. I’m sure my mother would have been proud had the guiding poem of my life would rather be Agnipath by Harivansh Rai Bachan or The Road not taken by Frost. Phew! By now, she knows better than anyone what a specimen her daughter has turned out to be. Whenever I see my mother, working hard in the kitchen, sweating profusely, despite getting pained at her sight, I feel helpless. One, that as regards cooking is concerned, I can cook only stories admonishing even the thought of help there, other being, tightly roped in the clutches of this laziness, by the time I realise I should assist, she has already finished with all the work. What an efficient lady, is all I am left admiring. Today we were walking in a lake park. My dad pointed at a fleet of swans in the lake, remarking how, if I were a child, I would have jumped with excitement at the delightlful site. Yet today it seems I am just a haggered set of bones, who has lost all the vivaciousness she once possessed. As I passed a group of septagenarians, I was bewildered to see even they possessed much more enthusiasm than I did. Talk about stamina, throughout I was dragging behind my ageing father. By ageing, don’t get me wrong daddy. I still uphold the words I once picked up from a Horlicks Commercial, “My daddy stongest is!” Its a satire on how I, voluntarily, have come to the fall of my adolescence. As always I have always blamed this lack of interest in the surroundings, due to the overt indulgence in the mobile. I once used to blame my sister for what I am slowly falling a prey to. Every night I feel like discarding away this metallic piece of scrap which has taken away my life.
Where is the bond that was once blossoming between me and my parents? Where is that connection? Is it an ephemeral misplacement or an eternal loss?