Keep two Cigarettes for tomorrow

I never wanted to have kids. Not because of the effort and care involved to raise healthy mature children. But because of fear influenced by rather dark outcomes that child bearing may entail.

Even if no untoward incident were to pass, I had not made peace with my existential angst. What sort of father will rear children who himself was rather fed up riding the ups and down on the cycle of life!? After one time, depending on the severity of your life experiences and what you see, read; mostly, the road seems downhill.

I had dated an office receptionist whom I fancied. She had made clear she wanted to bear children. I was looking for the fairytale “soulmate” connection only. No other strings of any sorts to be weaved. However sharing my honest perspective was met with subtle rejection. The ever-ready negotiator within me was fine to consider only one kid. But I guess first impressions leave lasting impact on wounded minds.

Getting moral-bombardment from seniors who hold cliche’ beliefs stating purpose of marriage is to further your progeny, my optimist persona drove my will on Morpheus’ advice from Matrix : ‘There is a difference between knowing the path and walking the path.’ Who knows? I could hit jackpot.

My inept social skills resulted in colossal failure to follow the path of “love” marriage. So I went with another beautiful platitude glorifying arrange marriage, ‘get married, you have a lifetime to know the person.’ Sure. After all, humans are created in god’s image. The hell begins when you realize that God is a bandaid concept on scars that are not meant to heal.

The honeymoon phase lasted for about 2 years. The subtle power play of decision making slowly drifted towards the better half. I realized that my man-child persona’s expiry date was now due. I enjoyed my time with the kid more than the spouse. Somewhere I wanted to fill the paternal gap of my life when my father worked overseas by sticking with the toddler. So discipline from my end was thrown out the window.

But helicopter moms are devilishly result driven. And one of the horrors of my existential angst confronted me when my son’s doctor shot the observation that he could be on the autism spectrum due to his speech delay.

Now this is something I could face with complete conviction as a devil’s advocate ploy by the quack to trigger my spouse’s maternal instincts in gear. My unbiased observation contradicted his prognosis because I did not consider intelligence as a unilateral dimension based on success to deliver a set of expected results. But I had no proof to portray my perspective. Doctors and military personnel are respectfully feared, no matter what mistakes they make. The divine bandaid remains quite an eye candy.

I had read parents committing suicide when they were told that their kid was a retard. My childhood tuition teacher’s brother had down syndrome. She and her sisters remained bachelorettes so that they could take care of their brother. So be it down syndrome, Asperger, autism spectrum not that different as shell shock and PTSD. Same treat, different packaging.

The cracks of clashing opinions gradually perforated our heavenly union. I gave way to her wish for bearing a sibling to our son. Still even in second pregnancy, her discontentment was in plain sight. Couldn’t even tell her, ‘respawn to the dwelling of thy creators ye depressed one.’ She had asked the doctor if any head injury when the kid fell from a swing once, when I took him out to play, was responsible for the speech delay. The doctor said no. But throwing mud on me when she herself had twice irresponsibly caused accident to the kid made me vindictive. I couldn’t keep the hurt to myself.

I got a cat for the kid to play despite knowing she suffered from ailurophobia. But my depressed fighter didn’t budge even after I got a majestic Persian.

My silver lining? Troll my office’s haughty lady manager with sarcastic expletives on her third outburst. Got a POSH (so called — prevention of sexual harassments) complaint registered. Spent two nights in prison.

Jail experience tripped a story about a bloke who hit enlightenment by staring at the monastery wall for 10 years. Wonder which wall he was looking at?

Anyways, no better half at home after returning back on bail.

Second bundle of joy delivered healthy.

(Now) ex-spouse, not dead in childbirth.

Divorce was a negligible price to pay.

Moral?

If you can use a lighter, don’t waste matchsticks on Cigarettes.