The Imperfect Family

It’s a rainy evening. I am curled up on my bed, watching the pitter-patter of rain drops on the banana leaf that intrudes into my window from the backyard.As I stealthily run my eyes across my room, I see the book shelf with my prized collection of 62 books, the wooden rocking chair, my new found poster declaring: “Imagination unlocks the universe” and then a photograph where two middle aged, emaciated people smile consciously with slightly crouched eyebrows. They are my parents. As always, their thought itself triggers a train of emotions in me.


Ours has been a case of paradoxical togetherness. Three people, three different outlooks, three different behavioral patterns, in short three people from different planets put together under a single roof.


Our life story has not been like a Karan Johar movie, it is more like Piku, where there is lot of yelling, lot of arguments, lot of disagreements and yet at the end, quite strangely there is a twist. A climax which you never ever thought in your wildest dreams.


As a child, I always imitated my father, to an extent, I copied his hairstyle too. This habit when grew into me and as an adult made me imitate his anger too. A daughter is a mother’s best friend, yet when I became an adult, the friendship was dominated by celebrating my point of view about life because frankly, Moms are way too naïve in today’s world.


It has been a while since I have been staying with them as a working adult, it has been a roller coaster ride. Sometimes my mom reprimands me for turning deaf ears while reading a book and sometimes my dad hangs his head in disappointment over the number of hours I spend in front of the laptop. Sometimes they are hysterical if my phone is switched off during my commute and sometimes they are distraught when I forget my umbrella in office. “What are you going to do in your sasural?” is what my mom keeps reminding me and “Why were you still awake at 2AM?” is what my dad tells me.


We never dedicate sentimental messages to each other on social networking sites. My father calls it superficiality, my mother doesn’t feel anything about it. Our arguments snatch away my night’s sleep as I feel frustrated and distraught while they sleep peacefully, like babies.

Yet, at the end of the day, when I see my mom’s smile as I finish dinner while licking my finger or my dad’s delight when he describes about something he read recently, I get a silent feeling that maybe I am that tiny miracle they search for everyday. Also when my dad praises me like crazy even when I prepare a simple cup of tea or my mom bursts into laughter when I prepare dinner as she dozes off while watching her favorite TV show, makes me happy about my existence.


Whenever I see my dad flaunting his Titan watch and my mom wearing the silk saree I bought with my first salary and then declaring it to most of the people they meet during family functions, I sense love in the twinkling pride in their eyes.


Their frantic search for medicines when I sneeze, their failed attempts at keeping my birthday gifts a secret, their tears when they see a bidaai scene from a movie, their silly laughter at my pathetic jokes and above all their silent promise for being there for me, no matter what, beyond the realm of life and death prompts me to think, that out of the countless souls wandering around the face of earth, I am blessed that they chose me.


Yes, I agree that they may not be perfect, just the way one perceives the idea of parents through books and movies but look who is talking. Am I perfect too? So who am I to judge them?


We are not perfect, we are crazy, yet that is precisely what makes us special and makes us hungry for each other’s love. Yes, you will still get to hear some ruthless yelling while you pass through our window but try coming again after half an hour, chances are that you may be astounded by some wild laughter from three of its crazy inhabitants.


We are an imperfect family and we are happy to be the way we are.


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