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Why don’t epics have father son stories?

Why don’t epics have father son stories?

Mahabharata has always appeared to me as the mother of all literature – any story that can ever exist has already been done in Mahabharata. Revenge, love, envy, friendship, lust, greed, valour, cowardice, conflict, conspiracy, family dispute, friends, lovers, illicit lovers, brothers, brother-sister, mother-son, father-daughter, non-romantic boy-girl friendship (long before Mohnish Behl): everything. Only, there isn’t a single father-son bonding story.

True, there are fathers and sons. We have Yayati, who exchanges his old age with his son Puru’s youth. (His other son, Yadu who refuses to the exchange gets cursed – by dad, who else?). We have Shantanu who allows Ganga to drown his seven sons so as not to annoy her. And the eighth son who he rescues (a curious sudden bursting forth of fatherly love), he manipulates him into vowing lifelong celibacy so that daddy dearest could walk home with the next hottie by the riverside, Satyavati. We have Bhim who fathers Ghatotkach on his trips to the jungle and then uses him to neutralise the Vasavi Shakti (that Indra gave Karna), with, of course, his life.

Sons in general have been good. Dhrishtadyumna kills Drona to avenge dad Drupad’s humiliation. Oh, and that brings us to the first ‘good dad’ story – Drona at least decides to be killed once he learns son Ashwatthama is dead. Not much by the way of love or bonding but at least a dad who isn’t an asshole. Dhritarashtra – Duryodhana: we see a powerless dad more than any great love or bonding between them. Another good dad is Vasudev who drops his new born Krishna to Gokul – but here again, there is no dad-son bonding, more like an instinct to save a new born. See, the bar for a good dad is so pathetically low!

Same with Ramayana – you won’t find a single warm, strong, rich, dad-son story. Come to history and you will find dad-sons fighting each other for kingdoms.

Why is dad-son bond so less explored in literature? Tough to believe it just slipped off the minds of the great story tellers across thousands of years across the globe.

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Microstory 17: The wasp and the cloud

Microstory 17: The wasp and the cloud

It wipes off sweat from its forehead. The wasp. Sitting in her home on a tree trunk. Power goes. Fan stops,TV too. Irritated, she comes out.

Bright, hot sun all around. And then, she sees a patch of shade. She quickly flies there, looks up. A dark cloud, covering the sun. She smiles. She looks at the cloud the way you look at very few people. Then, she feels a sudden urge to reach out and tell the cloud it comforted her. So, she flies up. Up and up. But the cloud is too far. She cries out, “Cloud. Oyi, cloud.” But the cloud is too far. Doesn’t hear. She tries to fly further up but her little wings won’t carry her. Disheartened, she descends.

Just then, the cloud sees her. Something about her draws him to her. He comes down. Down and down. So down, he reaches little Pintu’s terrace. Pintu, standing on the terrace gets all wet. Clouds are water vapours, after all.

So, cloud comes down. Wasp sees him. Smiles. “Thank you cloud,” she says, surprised at the tear in her eyes.

“Why cry?” asks the cloud.

“I tried talking to you but you were too far.” she says.

“Oh, no worries,” cloud says, “My friends are air and water. Say anything to the air and it will take your message to me. I will say it to the water and it will bring my message to you.”

The wasp smiles and then, makes a sad face. “But my friends are butterflies. They can’t fly up to you.”

Cloud too goes sad. The butterfly comes along. “What happened?” she asks the wasp.

“You are my friend, but you can’t take my message to the cloud.” says wasp and makes a sad face again.

“You worried for this?” the butterfly asks, then says, “Flowers are my friend. And their friend is fragrance. So, you tell me your message. I will give it to the flower and the fragrance will take it to the cloud.”

The wasp smiles. She hugs the butterfly. “Careful,” says the butterfly, smiling, “careful with the sting.” They both laugh.The cloud too smiles.

So, the cloud now sends his messages through the water and the wasp sends her messages through air and fragrance.

(Photo courtesy:

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An ode to a friend – he was 50, I was 0 – till death did us part

An ode to a friend – he was 50, I was 0 – till death did us part

Note: This was written exactly a year ago, give or take a week, in a different context. An excerpt of a larger piece. But this part talks about the first friendship I built. A friendship across an age gap of 50 years that lasted 23+ years. Till he passed away. Years later, I got a feeling I saw him in a market in Noida. I knew I saw him. Can’t explain how. I still feel his presence sometimes. Allow me to build some preamble.
My earliest childhood memories are me in an all aluminium rickshaw with bags hanging from its side going to Spring Dales School, Pilibhit in my Nursery. They gave me a really colorful handpainted report card, with columns, subject names, scores in colored sketch pens on a yellow chart paper. Very beautiful. I think it also had a picture of flowers pasted on it. I stood first. A few years later when I could understand, I saw that report card and felt proud. Mom told me I had only gone there for a month or so and that disappointed me.
Then, I remember police line scenes with my maternal grandfather. A towering man, with sword like moustache and a voice so powerful, it would freeze your blood if it talked to you in anger. We clicked immediately. Much later, I tried to rationalise it by thinking that perhaps I was the only boy in his family – he had six daughters, he also had a couple of sons none of whom survived and I was the eldest son of his eldest daughter – the first of his grandkids. I liked his gun. I liked how he told me that one should never lag behind in the matters of food. And will eternally love him for the fifty odd times he showed me the legendary Bachchan song, “Mere paas aao mere doston” from Mr Natwarlal in cinema theatres in Badaun – we would go to the hall whenever I wanted to see the song again, he would tell the theatre guy that the boy wants to see the song, we will enter the hall mid movie, watch the song and then leave. Rinse and repeat. I never got tired of seeing the song. He never got tired of showing me the song. Till the theatres changed the movie.
I loved how he talked Urdu poetry with me – a kid barely able to pronounce his own name but just happy with all the affection. And, he would take me to the barracks where I would play doctor to the innumerable cops, I distinctly remember me sitting on his office table using my plastic doctor’s set – using stethoscopes and thermometers and injections on sundry cops. The doctor’s set had other equipments too, none of which I knew and none of which I used.
Images with him fill my mindspace. There are some images from Shahjahanpur and Lucknow KG Medical College when dad fell severely ill and everyone had lost hope. Must have been a traumatic moment for all of them. I dont remember much or the severity as I spent most of the time at his place in Badaun.
He’d gift me a gun almost everytime. And he’d get something or the other everytime he came home. I saw him fire a gun and that segued into my first trysts with smoking, as the only thing I noticed about the gun was the trail of smoke. I was his bright shining puppy and he was my first friend. Interesting that it was across a massive age barrier. I think we loved each other as men.
He continued talking Urdu poetry with me from the days I started walking upright. And he never explained it till I asked him to. He expected me to understand. And that made me push harder and ask for help if I could not. There, he treated me as an equal. He also loved to quote Ram Charit Manas. And he had a big scar on his back. Whenever I’d see him without his shirt on, I’d want to touch that scar. I think I did too once or twice when we slept in the same bed. Or maybe not. I loved his sweaty smell but I hated his blanket. It pricked me.
Much later, as a teen I’d spend bulk of my summer vacations at his place. He’d wake me up at 4 and take me to really long walks. We’d walk some 7-8 kilometers, from his home to roads to fields to the bridge on the river Sot (called Laal Pul – I’d wrack my brains everytime to figure why it was called Laal Pul but I never saw anything red). In class VIII, I told him I wanted to learn Urdu and he taught me to read and write it. I can still read and write Urdu though might need a quick 5 min revision to identify all letters.
They say I’ve inherited his height and voice. Perhaps the dark hard face too. And that scares me. He died of throat and lung cancer when I was in my first term at Ahmedabad. They didn’t tell me he was gone till a month and a half later when I merrily returned home in the term vacation and innocently asked where he was. I also remember him lying on his sick bed in AIIMS, a pipe going through a slit in his throat, his booming voice had left him. That was three months ago, in mid 2000, when I had just been selected to Ahmedabad and was waiting to join.
We had our share of adventures too – like him fighting off a pack of twenty growling, snarling, salivating stray dogs with his stick in a dark night on a deserted street with me tangling behind his knees. But all of that for another day.
Of all the wonderful friendships I have and have had, and I have been very lucky with friends, this, the first and the longest lasting has to be up there at the top. Wherever you are, my friend, hope it is as fun as you always made everything, hope the Urdu poetry still flows and hope that voice still booms.
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