There is no such thing as generation gap. Heck, the whole problem is about my previous generation coming too close to me. Forget gap, there’s a generation overlap at my home. My parents are all over me, all the time, for everything. Generation gap my foot!
They say that the ‘phenomenon’ of generation gap first occurred in the 1920s, due to the older generation having just fought in the war finding it inappropriate that the younger were out at dance halls and listening to jazz music.
Which dance bar …er…I mean dance hall did I ever go to? And hey, my dad fought no world war – not outside my mom’s territory anyway.
But I guess my parents couldn’t have borrowed the reason for their panga with me from the 1920s. They only look old, Ranjib-ed and bose-d; but they are actually quite young. Young enough to be able to always keep me on toes with the thought of having a sibling. A sibling? Now, at this age? Aw, come on, I’m 17. I can’t have a baby bro or sis who is 18 years younger to me. Now THAT would be what I call generation gap.
But hey, that was like giving birth to a new topic. No, no, no; I don’t want to talk about anything but the age-old yap called generation gap.
Ever since I was born, my parents have been on my case. My mom, of course, had started taking control of me even earlier than that! If only my dad was someone better, I would’ve ‘formed myself’ within my mother, hearing his pearls of wisdom. Or maybe he deliberately kept me away from becoming Abhimanyu and getting killed within a deadly ‘Chakravyuh’. Oh my God; yes, my dad’s an angel! Or else, at 17, I had only one more year to go!
But hey, wait a minute. Maybe my dad’s not such a God after all. Maybe he’s a sadist. He wants me to live longer. No, no; he wants me to live longer WITH HIM. Heck, even a moment with him feels like an year anyway. “Zindagi lambi nahin, badi honi chahiye”, babu moshai’s late friend had once said. With so much suffocation around at home, “na toh meri zindagi lambi ho rahi hai, na hi main bada ho pa raha hoon”!
I have seen so many households where dad is a friend and mom is almost a girl friend. (Eew! Doesn’t sound too pristine, does it? I know.) But at my home, mom’s just a stuffing machine (stuffs food, clothes, morals, time-table and other pukes into or onto me, depending upon her mood) and dad’s a recovery agent (”give me your report card”, “give me those books with pictures in your bag”, “give me your teacher’s number” and other diarrhoea).
So you see, I either get pumped in or get frisked out. One way or the other, there is at least one hand on me – generally around my neck.
And then they say I don’t understand them. Heck, I want to understand you mom, dad. But for that to happen, I’ll have to be able to see you. You guys remain far too close to me. Two generations Bose-s are almost glued to each other. Give me some space guys. Give me some gap within generations. Show me that there is, after all, a thing called generation gap.
