I wonder sometimes, I wonder about how your voice would sound like after all these years. I wonder if you’d approve of me by now. Successful, in the arts world, writing music, getting tons of money from it, teaching music to children and undergraduates, doing everything that you pretty much despised.

You wanted me to be a doctor. You made the rule in the house simple – “NO ARTS, NOTHING UNDER ARTS” was ever acceptable, to you it was science… science moved the world forward, science was the reason why we were able to eradicate small pox from the world. I argued with you, almost every other night about how rock music made big bold political statements, about how arts encourages creativity and creativity is the reason why we were able to conceptualise gravity. I talked for hours and presented academic papers to you, telling you about how playing an instrument is good for cognition and imagination. I questioned things with you and I asked you “what is the point of a sunset? What is the point of living when we are all going to die? Music was and is not ever necessary for survival, but it makes survival worth it. It enriches life.” Idealistic, I know. Your stubbornness was frustrating but it taught me that I could never change you.

When I was younger, people always told me that I needed to work really hard to prove to you that you were wrong. People told me to give it a few decades, to let money and ‘success’ prove to you that I was able to make a living in this world.

If you were still around, maybe you’d laugh, maybe you’d apologise, maybe you’d say you were wrong. Or maybe you’d tell me again that I’m selfish because I don’t give a damn about developing a cure for cancer. I don’t know.

I was there when your head rested. I was there when you were close to your eternal slumber. I wrote your eulogy and recited it at your funeral. I cried for you. I sang a song for you, my voice echoed through the abbey and made other people cry.  All you did was shoot my dreams down and toss me money every so often. You really did a bad job as a parent… or maybe I expected too much from you. I don’t know.

After all these years, in spite of the ‘success’ I’ve earned… the last thing I want to do is show you how great I am. No, that would be too juvenile. I just want you to know I love you… I know you tried, I know your best was not really the best, but you tried and I suppose … when you are gone and buried, I can’t bear a grudge against you anymore. So, I forgive you.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s