PENT UP RAGE

 

It’s amazing how you let things get the better of you and bring out the worst in you. I am still trying to erase the disgraceful memories of today’s events, kicking myself again and again in disgust.

 

First, the driver and the accident. Even as my driver was negotiating the choking morning traffic, a car from behind missed brakes, and bumped into mine. My driver got out, inspected the damage and charged straight at the culprit. An unending argument ensued and my constant directives to the driver to return fell on his deaf ears as he gave full vent to his feelings. I was getting late. Irritation, impatience and anger knotted into a tight ball. I could have given my driver a piece of my mind but I didn’t.

 

Having spent his anger and vent his feelings, the driver returned. Along the way to office, I quietly listened to his judgmental observations on the roads, driving and drivers, Mumbai traffic and a host of related and unrelated issues. I should have cut him off; I didn’t.

 

At office, it was my marketing manager’s day today. A dumb wit and a moron, he found the day auspicious to spend two hours with me complaining how I failed to solve his problems (excuses for his non-performance). The ball inside me tightened and grew bigger in my belly like a fetus growing. I should have ticked him off and cut short his protestations; I didn’t.

 

Back from office, it was my wife’s turn at home. It was really one of those days when people sense your vulnerability and pick on you. She ticked a few things I had forgotten to do, led me to admit my indifferent attitude towards home and family and finally stomped into the kitchen, regretting why she ever got married to me. I should have taken her on. I didn’t.

 

The fetus inside was now moving impatiently, as if urging me for deliverance. I washed, changed and slumped into the sofa and turned for solace to the Television. My mind was in a whirl. I couldn’t focus.

 

The doorbell rang wildly. It must be my son. The door opened and banged shut as he barged in, flinging his footwear around, throwing his racquet on the dining table and finally coming to a screeching halt before me. My eyes were still on the TV though I was aware of him trying to get my full attention. I could hear him asking for the pencil he wanted for school. I shook my head, eyes still on TV. He grabbed the remote and snapped it shut, yelling at me. Was he not more important than the TV, he was asking me. I mumbled something about being busy, and promised to get his stuff tomorrow and even threw in a chocolate as a bonus. Not satisfied, he bore on me like a challenging warrior.

 

The baby inside snapped free suddenly. My right hand swung and caught my son’s head, knocking him down. Everything around me froze. A few moments later, I could hear my own voice at a very high pitch, sounding hysterical. At last, my tongue had loosened up. My wife came into my line of vision. She stood at a safe distance, a look of amazed disapproval printed on her face, nostrils slightly flared, hands on hips – as if wanting to charge at me. But she just stood there.

My son, stunned by the blow, was cowering on the floor. Suddenly, I started to choke on my words and started coughing.

 

Marching into the bedroom, I took refuge under the sheets covering myself up. My head was throbbing, eyes burnt madly and sweat broke out. In the darkness of the room, I was simmering, like milk on low heat. The baby in the belly was not there. But what was that heavy thing in my heart?

 

My head started clearing up and a new voice could be heard from within. What have you done-said the voice. Another voice was explaining everything rationally but there was no stopping the volley of poison tipped darts flung at me. You coward. Venting you frustrations at your child. Why didn’t you tick off your driver? You could have handled the moron officer better. You let your wife get away. You attacked your son.

 

Guilt and shame swept like gale inside me. I had never wanted, ever, to hit anybody, least of all my dear son. Yet, I had unleashed all my rage at him, the weakest link, the tenderest one. I felt disgraced.

 

I must get up and make it up with him. As these thoughts swept around, I could feel small, tender fingers running through my hair. A pair of tender lips kissed me and I could feel the moist cheeks rubbing my face. “I’m sorry Papa.”

 

I felt totally crushed. I could have dug a deep dark hole and disappeared forever into it. Guilt, disgrace and all other residual emotions became water and gushed out of my eyes. I held the child tightly to my chest and prayed for deliverance.