When I was in school, I’m guessing in the 5th or 6th standard, there was the case of this lost jeans, a case I could never really figure out. And I don’t know why that bloody event comes to my mind now, when I hardly care about the jeans I wear.
What happened (or not happened) is that my parents had bought me a jeans. And it was a really weird-ass coloured jeans – something like an algae green mixed with blue or something, grotesque in short. Actually, I don’t even remember the colour as much as I do this incident. But I know, for sure, that the colour was fucking weird. Like even in those juvenile days, who the fuck wore an algae colored jeans, I must have thought!
Now, my parents have always been very sensitive to my choice. Either they know I’ll like something they want to buy for me or they don’t. When they do, they buy that something and when they don’t they don’t buy that something because I don’t use that something if I don’t like that something. These choice-paradigms have led to far too many ego-centric tug-of-wars/tugs-of-war. And they happen till date (I’m 27 now!) and I love them for that.
Back to the jeans, I recollect in my memory that I hadn’t liked the jeans initially. So off went the jeans into the darkest corners of the kapaat (cupboard in Marathi), away from my sight. And I had forgotten about the jeans for a long time, I remember. But then, sometime later, I changed my mind towards that colour. Maybe because I saw someone else flaunt that jeans or maybe because I overheard my parents discussing whom to pass over the jeans to since I wouldn’t be interested in wearing their hand-picked, love-emboldened jeans and my brother was too young to be wearing jeans at all. Both reasons seem plausible if I am to believe that I have myself figured out, which I haven’t.
And then, I decided to come out at my parents and tell them that I wanted that new jeans. That I wanted to accept that lovingly bought gift. My parents (mostly mom, the one with whom I had these stupid discussions) denied everything I just told you in the previous paragraphs.
They denied the jeans’ existence. They denied my rejection of the colour. They denied any discussion. To persuade me into believing that there was never any such incident, they asked me to describe the jeans. When I did, they assured me that they would have never bought such a stupid jeans for me. Forget that, they hadn’t even discussed anything remotely close to passing over the jeans to some cousin after my refusal to accept. I was asked to search the kapaat, and the divan-bed. Obviously, I couldn’t find anything. And sometimes when I have recollected that incident, I have tried extracting the truth from my parents.
Today, I remember this incident with much less doubt. I have long accepted that maybe it was just a bad dream, and that maybe I was too small to understand the concept of a bad dream. Maybe woke up from my dream and just chose to extend the dream into reality. The last time I thought about this incident must have been when I was with my previous employer in Gurgaon.
It’s not for nothing that we cherish the childhood and wish those days came back. The days when you could get away with stupid shit like that. The days when you could hold your parents responsible for your mistakes, and continue to live your life. When you didn’t care if you were being fanatic about something or just plain dumb. Those were the days when you had zero liability – not even to yourself. Your conscience was the one part in your mind which urged you to push your mom for ice-cream on the way to school. Most of all, those were the days which your parents made special for you no matter how big an arse you must have been.
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