Not My Son

Creative Writing Competition 2012 India
CODE	735
SETTING	Old Palace OR Bungalow
OBJECT	Typewriter
THEME	Remorse

I had everything which I dreamt in my life. My wife, my son playing in gardens, my business and off course my ancestral bungalow smiling with delight. But I never knew things would change so much. My son Armaan was then twenty years old and he left home.

You may be wondering about tangles of twenty but I would tell you that it was all a misconception. I am a renowned businessman but I never wanted to do a business rather I always wanted to be an army officer but unfortunately I was never been able to become one.  Whatever, I had a dream that I would make my son Armaan an army officer. You may have heard a quotation “Fortune favours the brave” but I would like to tell you that luck never favoured me though I showed my bravery.

Armaan always wanted to become a writer. So on his 10^th birthday I gifted him a typewriter so that he could cultivate his passion… but never his ambition. I always instilled in him the thrills of being in army. He wrote since his childhood and my gift of typewriter had enhanced his spirits. But I thought this would certainly change. I confess that I was partially wrong that time. The things changed, but from bad to worse.

At young age his works were acclaimed but I still clung to the hope that things would certainly change. Day and night his typewriter rattled but I did not have any issue but that was where I was wrong. With a dream to see my son in army uniform I admitted him in the training centre for his army exercises. But sadly on the third day he ran from the college. I was furious but I managed to handle the situation. I politely explained him his ambition of being an army officer…… no I would say it was my ambition to see my son as an army officer not his ambition to become an army officer. Though I was polite that time but he replied cynically

“Dad, try to understand I want to be a writer. I will amount up to your expectations. You’ll be proud dad. Understand me. Why do you force me? Let me do what I wish….. Please Dad.”

My politeness was then transformed into annoyance. I scolded him in rage,

“Let you do whatever you want……”

“From where did you learn to question your father. ”

“Remember Armaan, you’re my son and you’ll only do what I desire you to do. You aren’t old enough to take decisions. And do remember always till I am alive that I am your father and will always talk your benefit.”

I softened a bit, “Son I owe you the duty to tell you what is right dad what is wrong. I am admitting you in N.C.C and please don’t do any drama again.”

I forgot all this and again got busy in business matters. I admitted him in N.C.C and I was happy that all went well.

A December day… perhaps it was Armaan’s twentieth birthday I don’t remember well but it was the only day when everything changed forever. He was very happy that day, I presume he was feeling happy after a long time. I thought that he is now adapted to NCC environment and everything has turned all right. But again I confess that I was wrong.

As soon as he noticed that I have returned from office he hurried to me and said cheerfully “Dad I knew I would do it. I could make you happy. Dad, I have got invitation from one of the most prestigious literary colleges of the country. They have acknowledged my works to a great deal. Now I have also given my resignation to NCC. Here are the papers, your signatures are required only.

There was nothing to say then. I took the papers in my hand read them thoroughly and then noticed bright face of my son.

Do you think I will sign this damn thing? Get this out of my sight or… I was still to complete but Armaan slashed out my decree I presume for the first time in his life.

“Dad, Let me live my life. I want to write. Understand dad.”

My rage was rekindled and I blasted “Who are you to make me understand? If you were my own son you would never say like that.”

We never had our own child so we had adopted him and of course he knew that but loved us more than natural bond of parents. But before I could complete he had gone to his room sad and forsaken.

Next morning was his twentieth birthday. As a responsible father I went inside his room to wish and explain him politely. But I never knew that last night we had our last conversation. As soon as I entered his room I stepped on script written by him.

“Dad, I am leaving home. But do remember, I’ll never let your name down.

Armaan”

He wrote it on the same typewriter which I had gifted him………the biggest mistake of my life. He also had taken the typewriter with him.

I quickly made out that he had left the home, left his parents. The stubbornest fellow, perhaps I gave him more freedom in his youth age.  It was my own entire fault.

Thoughts fluttered in my psycho, “Armaan was not your own blood so its better to forget him. Forget him forever. He was no one in your life. “

I tore the paper and perhaps forgot him forever. His mother tried to make me understand but I would never reconcile that fellow again in my home. Let him kill himself by his own hands and I persistently cursed my son and today’s youth generation who undervalue their parents wish.

Time swept at its pace and I had left my ancestral bungalow as it constantly reminded of those awful memories with Armaan. I with my wife settled abroad and endeavoured hard to forget all that. But sometimes in loneliness those awful memories reshuffled as the unpredictable gusts of dusty wind.

Now after very long time almost twenty years since Armaan broke away we decided to sell our bungalow in India at a good deal.

I went to get it renovated for sale. As I stepped inside the gate those beautiful gardens were forested with creepers and whole bungalow was almost engulfed. I opened the door which was left unopened for twenty years and yet again my feet stepped on an enveloped letter. It was from Armaan written with the same typewriter and it was dated 10 years back. I wanted to tear it with same vigour but I don’t know some unknown emotion made me to read it. The letters had become almost illegible but the paper had survived for 10 years beneath a door of the bungalow. It read:

Dad, I am sorry but I don’t know if I would make you happy ever we’ll be ever meeting back again. But as I said I will never let you down. I came home few months ago but bungalow was locked. I know dad that I am nothing for you now. But you’re my dad and I will never let your spirits go down.

Yours in eternity

Armaan

I tore the letter with same vigour as I had tore his script before he left.

There was one more postcard lying there but it was not from Armaan and looked formal.

A diminished script but yet I read it. It was printed

Param Veer Major Armaan Pradhan, #32 Rajput Rifles, BSF

Dead in combat against External aggression.

-DEFENCE MINISTRY

I stood reading the letter again and again perhaps to console myself that whatever I am reading is false and not realistic. Pity I could not change my realism. Tears rolled down my eyes. I knew, I had lost my victory, Certainly, he was not my son.

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