A Late Night Talk

The dim bulb was the only source of light in the dark living room and was situated right above the indoor bar. The rays from the light were bright enough for someone to recognize the family picture and the Award display right behind the bar counter. The father and the mother stood next to each other and their child stood in front of them in the picture. All family members were neatly dressed and held a big, wide smile across their face. Looking at the picture, Tolstoy’s words repeated themselves in one’s ear “All happy families are alike; each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.”

An array of awards were displayed across multiple shelves. Each more shiny than the previous one. It was strange to see that not even a single speck of dust lay on them while the family photo was covered by a layer of dust. We often go around all our lives looking for external validation and appreciation to gain internal peace and in the process end up losing everything.

On the edge of the bar counter, sitting on a tall bar stool, was a solemn figure. Glugging the whiskey that remained in the glass, he smashed the glass hard on the counter and shouted “I do not agree with you”. This old solemn figure was Mr. Khurrana. He was a fifty five year old man with a neatly trimmed chevron mustache which was completely grey. Everything about him cried perfection. He was sitting in his home bar with his sleeves folded neatly. His hair, even after a long day of work and multiple hours of drinking, had stayed neatly combed. His clothes were still well ironed and no creases were seen across the shirt. “I do not agree with you” he said once again in his deep melancholic voice.

From the darkness of the kitchen his son Keshav stepped into the dimly lit living room bar. He slowly walked towards the stool next to his father. He was the complete opposite of Mr. Kurrana. He wore a loose black t-shirt, probably twice his size, with NIRVANA written across his chest. His light blue denim jeans were torn in multiple places, matching the fashion at the time. His long unkempt curly hair were at war with his eyes to constantly ensure that they were unable to see without him lifting his head at an awkward angle. He sat next to his father and said “What is it that you don’t agree with?”

“There are multiple things,” Mr. Khurrana groaned.

Keshav got up and went to the other side of the bar. He picked up two glasses and poured whiskey into them. He handed one glass to his father and said “We have the whole night.” He walked back and sat next to his father and listened intently.

“Firstly, I didn’t put you in a boarding school because I hated you. I did so because of reasons a young boy would never understand”

“Try explaining them to me now”

“I just did”

“See, this is exactly what I dislike the most about you” said Keshav in an annoyed tone “You have always done this. BOTTLE UP. Keep all your feelings within. I learnt the same from you. For once in your life, be honest with me and share. Trust me. Treat me like an equal. Just tell me why?”

“Because life was difficult back then. Your mother, god bless her soul, had just passed away. I was working extra time to make ends meet. I barely had any time for myself. Or you. So I decided to send you to a boarding school. It was one of the best schools in India. On the hill top. IT would’ve been a good change for you.” Mr. Khurrana took a deep breath. “To add to this, this experience was supposed to make you independent. You would make friends for life and become a thorough gentleman. Why do you feel I sent you to a boarding school out of resentment?”

“You sent me away. Put me in a prison where everybody expected me to be as good as you. My life was miserable there. I was the son of a legend and I constantly ended up disappointing everyone. I was living with the burden to outdo you constantly. I would spend all my time competing with the younger version of you and would and came to the realization that I will never be good enough. And to add to my misery, you never visited or wrote a letter. What was a young boy to think?”

“Well son, I didn’t want you to get homesick and then miss out on all the fun of school. During the year when you were away, I would work hard. I would save my money rather than spending it on things I needed so that I had enough savings for your holidays. Whenever you came home, we would go on a vacation together. I always provided for you and ensured you had everything you needed. Some of my most cherished memories are from the times we spent together. And as for your competition with me, you were wrong. Your competition should’ve been with yourself. Your biggest competition is you from the past.”

Mr. Khurrana took a sip from his glass. As he set the glass back on the bar counter, he turned to his son who was in deep thought and said “Moving on to the second thing, I never asked you to give up your dream to become a writer. All I asked was for you to have a backup profession. You could have continued your writing on the side. This is the biggest problem with you kids. You people misconstrue the words of your parents to make them look bad.”

“Son, every day there are so many people who die because they couldn’t get one proper meal for themselves. The reason I asked you to do engineering was because you would at least have a job. You could’ve always kept writing as a hobby.”

Keshav took a deep breath. You could see all the pain from his past rise to the surface. “Dad, it isn’t easy. I was a below average kid in school. It only got worse from there on. In College they didn’t just expect you to study. They wanted you to be an extrovert, to take part in projects beyond the scope of your syllabus, to be a part of college fests and at the same time be a part of and support multiple clubs. Just like school, I failed in every single endeavor. I could barely pass in academics. All my spare time was spent studying so that I don’t repeat any subjects. Where was I supposed to get time to read literature and write?” He shook his head in disgust. “And the worst part of college came in the final year. These companies come to hire you to work for them. They make you sit for an exam, then once you pass this exam you are subjected to multiple rounds of interviews where they humiliate you by making you realize how you know nothing and your education is nothing but a sham. By the end you feel so bad about your existence that a 6 feet deep hole isn’t deep enough to hide yourself. All your friends get hired in companies that offer lucrative salary packages while a company that you have never heard of and nobody else wants to be a part of has to settle for you.”

Keshav got up suddenly and walked to the award display which had all of his father’s accolades from school, college and work. He was reminded of everything that he could never become. Shaking his head he said “Work was no good as well. I failed again at work. I never got time to write or read, like you had promised, after I joined that godforsaken company. The work hours were supposed to be 40 hours spread across 5 days a week but here we had 80 hours of work spread across 7 days a week. No wonder so many people get burned out at such a young age. The thing about these companies is that they make you work so much and in the end pay you money that isn’t enough to sustain a living. I had to call you at the end of every month, even after being a grown up adult who earns a living, to ask for money to ensure I survive. My work has never been satisfactory all my life. If there was an award for consistently failing then I would’ve been the consistent recipient of this award. In the end I was tired. I was angry. But most importantly, I had lost the will to live.”

“This is the third thing I disagree with,” said Mr. Khurrana. “You constantly use these lines and give up.”

He looked at the leftover food lying on the plate on the other end of the counter and said to his son “You know child, life isn’t that complex. It is as simple as preparing a meal. The first stage is the prep work you do before a meal. You will have to chop vegetables and in the process you might cut yourself. But don’t be afraid. This step includes a lot of crying while chopping onions, much like how all kids cry in school and college. But this is the most important of all the steps because without it there will be no food. This step resembles school and college life, son. Without them, the meal that is life will never be prepared.

The second stage of your life includes the toiling and sweating to achieve different flavors. Just as you sweat the onions and the vegetables to release their flavors. The more you sweat the better the flavors. And the same applies to your life. The more you struggle and sweat in this phase the better your meal will taste in the end.

The third and the final stage is the plating and tasting stage. This resembles old age in your life. If you pay enough attention in the first two stages then you get to enjoy a medley of flavors in a sumptuous meal. If you get a little distracted, then the meal gets burnt and you are left with bitterness in your old age. Nothing to enjoy in life. Even then you won’t be a failure, son. Because you at least tried making a meal.”

Keshav looked into his father’s eyes that were lit up after this analogy. He nodded as he finally understood his father’s viewpoint. He smiled a little.

Mr. Khurrana looked down at his glass, chugged the remaining whiskey and said “If only…” His voice started to break and he couldn’t control himself. He burst into tears saying “I failed as a father.”

Keshav reached across and hugged his father. “You didn’t dad. You always had the best interest for me in your heart. I think it is too late now. Let’s tuck you in bed. Stop crying now papa. Come on, let us put you to sleep.”

He helped his old father up the stairs and into the bedroom. The old man was still sobbing. No amount of alcohol could take away his pain. Keshav tucked him in his bed and kissed him on the forehead. Mr. Khurrana slowly drifted off into the land of dreams. His son stood by his bed watching him sleep.

Keshav thought about the talk he had had with his father that night. Words, he thought, were so powerful. Some of them could cut deeper than knives or swords. No man made medicine could cure these wounds. Only words had the medicine to heal these cuts. The scars remain for life but the pain subside with time. Smiling at his own thoughts, he took one more look at his sleeping father and walked back into the darkness towards his room.

Down in the living room, the dim light was still on. There was an old newspaper right next to the bottle of whiskey and a glass. The headline on the front page read “Famous Entrepreneur’s Son Commits Suicide.” The talk was a week too late.

The End

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