-- Tarh Nama (Rama)

My father gave me books

while life gave him fields.

From a little village,

where the state transport bus

appeared only once in three or four days,

he still gathered what he could

to send me to a good private school,

to an institute he believed

could shape my tomorrow.

A keeper of mithuns,

a man who spoke more through his hands

than through words.

His palms knew the language

of soil, rain, seasons, and sacrifice.

And my mother - just a school peon,

quietly earning her modest wage,

carrying in her heart

a dream much bigger

than her little pay could afford.

Between my father's field

and my mother's humble salary,

they built me a ladder

from which they hoped

I would climb higher than them.

Sometimes I remember

Udit Narayan's legendary song:

"Papa kehte hain bada naam karega,

Beta humara aisa kaam karega…"

"Koi engineer ka kaam karega,

Business mein koi apna naam karega…"

Perhaps my father heard that song

and quietly saw me in it.

Perhaps he imagines today,

his son becoming someone

he could be proud of.

Perhaps he dreams of seeing me

as an officer,

or at least behind a desk,

with a nameplate

bearing my name.

But here I am-

living through my thirties,

carrying degrees

like unopened letters

from a future

that never arrived.

BA in English.

MA in English.

BEd.

So many years of education,

so many pages turned,

so many examinations passed-

yet not an officer,

not a clerk,

not even a peon.

And sometimes I wonder:

What was the worth of all those degrees

when the world still asks me-

"What have you become?"

I have never driven an

auto rickshaw,

but I imagine myself

riding one to a cardamom garden,

returning to the fields,

or working as a labourer

just to keep life moving.

Not because labour is beneath me-

but because I remember

the hands that worked

so mine could hold a pen.

And still, some nights,

a voice asks:

"What an embarrassing child I am.

What a burden I have become.

They gave me so much-

what have I given them?"

Perhaps I am only late, not a failure.

Perhaps - the ink is still wet.

(The contributor resides in Naharlagun, and can be contacted at 8413966238)