Angry young man.
That’s the nickname I naturally earned as a lanky teenager, and it stuck with me even after marriage, with a restless youth still lurking inside.
My political awakening came early, back in primary school. I was trained to see politics in every social issue, including family. I reacted instinctively, getting angry at everything and everyone tied to the establishment.
With a clenched fist in the air, arrogance on my face, and a sharp tongue spouting venomous slogans, these were my trademarks, the quirks my family wished to forget. I claimed violence as a rightful tool for any social cause. ‘Blood will have blood’ was scrawled in red across my personal manifesto.
Even the elders at home faced my wrath if I believed them wrong. I fought fiercely when I thought I was right.
One evening, my father’s patience broke.
“We’re in a national Emergency. Political leaders are jailed. How do you justify carrying Maoist literature? And you were so careless I found it while ironing your pants!” His anger was hotter than mine.
“I don’t care. We have an Emergency to fight. It’s our resolve. India must stand united. Those unwilling to join are political Judases,” I retorted, leaving before his hand could strike.
My memories of Dad are filled with such clashes. I never hesitated to shout back: “No, Dad, you’re wrong. Don’t justify.”
That angry young man has now faded into something else—like a toothless dog watching the world pass by, waking only to howl at the moon.
That angry young man now misses feeling anger. When did I lose that fire? The ability to feel deeply? To cry? To burn?
Why am I now so stoic?
In the newsroom, I once believed erring was human, but forgiving was unprofessional. I no longer shake my head in disgust. Now, I calmly explain the unreasonable complexities of English. The old rage has turned into quiet explanation. I drive home past midnight with a light heart, sometimes stopping for coffee.
Recently, gold was mistaken for God in a headline. My new self simply said: “Be more careful, guys.”
If I replayed past scenes, they’d play out differently.
“Did you see the rare kukri from Kathmandu? It was right here in my study.”
“I threw it away,” my wife replied.
“What? Why?”
“It intimidated me. It felt like Damocles’ sword. It unnerved me.”
“Are you crazy? And the black stone masterpiece—the African Thinker?”
“It looked haunted and jinxed. I gave it to the trashman.”
In retaliation, some Polki necklaces flew out the window.
The old me would have raged, demanded answers. The new me calmly says:
“Never mind, my love. If you didn’t like them, I don’t either. I want no intruders in our Lovedale.”
I doubt I can regain my old intensity. Maybe I no longer have time. Just last week, a friend wrote:
“It’s not about you. I need space to sort my feelings. I fear I’ve been too demanding. Let me find balance.”
I didn’t cry, but the words hurt deeply. The pain was almost physical. All I said was: “Be happy—with or without me. Everyone deserves space.”
Later, alone, I wept silently. It felt like mourning the death of my true self.
