In my life, I have been called dilettante, womanizer, meat eater, sexually deviant, promiscuous, theatrical, egotistical, connoisseur of fine scotch, unstable, neurotic, hedonistic and a sinner who is guaranteed a place in every religion’s version of hell – but on earth I am in heaven. At least that is what I feel.
From whence I came, I had enjoyed extraordinary pleasures and experiences that another man in my shoes, or the footwear that passed for shoes in my neck of the woods; would probably not even dream of or fantasize and neither did I for that matter.
But my greatest joy has been – raising my daughter.
Fyodor Dostoevsky in Notes from Underground wrote that humans desire absolute free choice above all else. Even if those choices causes pain, suffering, and destruction. In simpler terms if you wish to see a man destroy himself; you leave him free to do what he wants.
That worked for women as well and I let my wife be and was eventually left alone to raise my daughter by my own self. A devious motherfucker I am every once in a while.
My child grew up amongst books, literature, music, travel – quite a life for a little Indian girl. Although I am an autocratic parent who never bluffs, I have been known to be great with kids. But whenever they wish to have their way with me, they are often reminded that parenting is not democracy but a benevolent dictatorship.
As it came to pass. On one fine day, I was told that my daughter and her friends have formed a writers club and they had a charter and rules and prohibition on the use of ai and such things, and had duly anointed herself as the president.
But when I demurred and feebly objected, as fathers tend to do with their daughters, that the presidentship seems authoritarian. She curtly replied, ‘Creative writing is not democracy. Art is the burden of the artist and not a privilege for the masses.’
Satisfied and Silenced. I realized nature had a sense of humor.
The tree didn’t fall far from the nut.