They have a perfect script for the way my life is supposed to pan out has been edited by Rushi Bhimani.
Parents tend to envision so much, since the moment their child is born. From the school that the child will go to, to what he or she would become when they grow up. Adorable, isn’t it?
I talk a lot about lovers forming an idea of me, my friends weaving strings of expectations, and the world expecting me to be a certain way. It is quite astonishing how I missed out on the fact that, at an unparalleled level, my parents do the same.
They have a perfect script for the way my life is supposed to pan out. And for some time I liked it. Being spoon fed, oblivious to the fact that with every bite I took, I swallowed an inch of my freedom.
Let me just clarify, freedom does not mean drinking endlessly or rolling a joint.
Freedom is the ability to choose what is right and wrong for me. It is the knowledge that I can commit mistakes on my journey of growth. The liberty to raise questions when I think people are being unfair to me. Freedom is having the assurance that I would not be abandoned if I take one step ahead without the consent of my parents. It is a feeling of security in a life that is daunting and full of possibilities.
Now that we have that out of the way, it’ll be easier to say the things I am about to.
So coming back to the script. That script has an ideal waist line etched on the first page. The number of piercings, the number of tattoos, the number of scars, the amount of hair and the most important, the date of rupturing the hymen. It is all seamlessly aligned with the idea of me that they hold.
On the second page, is a list of the mistakes they committed, and prescribed are the measures they shall take to protect me from the same. Very considerate, yes. However, where is the line? That line of privacy? The line where they stop and let me have experiences of my own, without reminding me how liberal they are in comparison to other parents?
Sorry, I spoke out of turn.
But thankfully, this leads us to page three. It is an integral one, so keep up. On this page, in a chronological order, are stated instances and circumstances that are either acceptable or unacceptable. And with each circumstance is a note, which declares whether I have the right to cross question or not.
This page is quickly followed by page four, where a detailed account of the decibel volume and facial muscles to be used while “conversing” with them. This one is a little hard to follow, but I think that is all right. They have all sorts of rights, provided they did do me a huge favour by giving birth to me.
Fuck. Again, out of turn.
The last page, the fifth one, has a clearly defined list of suitable professions and spouses—because you can’t have a boyfriend or girlfriend, can you? In case I fail to abide, I will be tagged as an ungrateful daughter, a deviant, a reckless person and an irresponsible girl.
I feel sorry for them. It is very unfortunate that I overlooked the script. It is very ungracious of me to talk about this in public. Writing about it publicly is most definitely objectionable. Who do I think I am, anyway? How can I possibly wish to lead my life my way? How can I have aspirations that are in conflict with the ones in the script? Do I even know how much will it hurt their social well-being?
They are good people. They did not kill me as a girl child.
I was sent to a good school. Educated enough so that I could fend for myself. Just forgot, while doing this I would learn to think for myself, I might dream and I might fall in love.
But they are good people. They pay for my wants and needs; they do not keep me under a house arrest. All they are asking of me is to accept that I will forever be wrong, and because they were nice enough to raise me, I am to be tied with their words until they tie me off to someone else’s.
If I have the freedom to breathe, then why does it feel so hard to?
To read more by the author of They have a perfect script for the way my life is supposed to pan out, click here.