Tooth Trouble

Ever since I was a wee boy I have held the wisdom tooth with a mixture of terror and awe. I would hear horror stories from adults (adults!! They were not supposed to feel any pain!!!), about how the sprouting of their wisdom teeth brought them to tears and made them beg for the sweet merciful release of death. I awaited the whole deal the way teenagers in Hollywood movies wait for Freddy Kruger or that masked guy from Scream - with sheer pants shitting terror. In fact, I attribute my complete inability to get laid during my teens and early twenties to fretting excessively about wisdom teeth. It is not sexy.

Aaaand then it happened. It throbbed for a few days and then presto! New tooth! And another. I was on a roll. I had perhaps the most painless sprouting of wisdom teeth in my immediate family and it was no doubt a result of their combined curses that I found myself, at the ripe old age of 28, in a dentist's chamber for the first time in my life.

See, what had happened was, my wisdom tooth (yep, THAT son of a bitch FINALLY fucked me over) decided to explode. Well, not explode exactly, but one morning I woke up to discover that my healthy tooth had suddenly crumbled in parts, revealing jagged edges that looked mildly uncomfortable and felt like something Vlad the Impaler could be proud of. Of course, I realised this required immediate medical attention without which it could become much, much worse, so I did the responsible, mature thing. I ignored it completely and hoped that unlike any other tooth in history, it would heal itself. Also, I hoped my wife wouldn't notice.

What it looked like

What it felt like

So yeah, three days later my wholesale response to any question was "AAAARRRGGGHHHHHHH". That was when my family began to suspect. The hunt was on for a dentist of some repute. The local guy was discarded when our maid said he wasn't very good. When a person with teeth the colour of sunflowers in spring say a dentist isn't up to the mark, you listen. She isn't choosy.

Anyway after a day or two of hunting and more pain, I was standing at the entrance to a dentist's office, looking into a room that resembled a sophisticated torture chamber more than anything else. Sure, the upholstery was a gentle blue, but it was a blue mixed with the tears of a thousand victims. I was apprehensive.

The wait was about a decade or so, every second of which the jagged edges of my teeth spent getting jaggedier and jaggedier. I entertained myself with murderous thoughts about mother nature. Upon receiving the call, I walked into the previously mentioned chamber and settled down on a comfortable reclining chair. The man turned out to be an extremely soft spoken individual with a budding bald pate and a polite little moustache that barely moved when he spoke

"What seems to be the problem?"

"AAAAAARGGGHHHHHH"

He nodded with understanding and shoved a tiny little bent mirror in my mouth. I made myself comfortable, thinking this was as bad as it was going to get. If you are at all a student of irony and foreshadowing, you will know this was not the case.

My first clue was when he picked up a tiny little drill with the easy, quiet confidence of a man who knows HE is not the one who was going to have a spinning, sharp, pointed instrument of condensed pain jabbed into the softest part of his body that did not involve genitalia. My second clue was when he actually DID shove the drill in my mouth, all the while saying in a soft voice "hold still, hold still and relax, hold still and relax and keep your mouth open", like one of those lunatic serial killers with a fetish for victims who hold still and relax.

"I would you fucking sadist, but I have a fucking drill shoved in my mouth!!!" was what I wanted to say. Unfortunately what I did say was "AAAAARRRRGGGGGGHHHHHHH!!!!". It must have sounded like an encouragement, even a cheer, because he attacked my teeth and gums with renewed vigor. Upon seeing I was in considerable pain (maybe the tears streaming from my eyes tipped him off) he advised me to hold still, relax and keep my mouth open. I complied. After what seemed like centuries the whirring stopped. The drill was out of my mouth. I was instructed to empty the contents of my mouth in a basin next to the chair. After spitting out what seemed like Edward Cullen's breakfast, I was admonished gently for not spitting with better aim (some of the blood had streaked the edges of the basin). Resisting the urge to take the drill and stick it where it was never meant to be stuck, I meekly left the chair, took the prescription and walked out of the office, shaking with pain, humiliation and rage.

Which lasted all of 2 minutes, at which point I realised my teeth weren't jabbing into my skin anymore and it was greater comfort than a thousand soft pillows fluffed by a thousand soft hands. Seriously, if you are having tooth trouble, go visit a dentist ASAP. Worth it.

If you survive.

Stock-Home Syndrome

A mother's love is unconditional. Usually.

Parents put their children ahead of themselves. Usually.

A father is a shelter, a port in a storm. Usually

But this blog is not about the parents. It's about the kids. Not those who are kids today, but those who were kids once. Who suffered...yes, suffered in the hands of their parents when they were growing up, not because their parents were evil people, but because they didn't know any better. If it happens outside, people call it assault. If it happens at home, people call it tough love.

Many of my friends have horror stories. One is about how his fathers whipped him with a belt for scoring less than 80 in maths. In his class 7 exams. There is a tinge of pride in my friend's voice when he recounts how the welts didn't disappear for weeks. Machismo. 'Cos that's what dads do.

Another friend once told me why she kept skipping classes every month. Her mother didn't allow her to get out of the bed when she had her periods. She was "unclean" after all. Mind it, we were both in college. The girl was effectively under house arrest for a week every month. Only allowed to go to the toilet, the rest of the time she was confined not even to her room, but in her bed. Month after month. Year after year. It was normal to her. A tinge of sadness, a bit of irritation, but normal.

These are not isolated stories. Many people I know have similar dark patches they try to blot out. I have mine. When the abuse isn't physical, its mental. Screams. Being locked away in dark rooms. Being treated like nobody. Humiliated because they cannot fight back. The only word for it is bullying. But it's not when the parents are doing it.

So many grow up to have terrible relationship with their parents. Those that don't have terrible relationships with their children, because they think bad parenting is the only way of parenting. Few have the courage to accept the truth - that their parents frequently screwed up. That parenting was the biggest test of their parents lives, and nobody really checked whether they were ready for it or not. A person isn't even allowed to be a security guard at an ATM without going through an interview and a background check. Yet he can be a parent, no questions asked. Creating a human being and nurturing him or her into a person somehow requires less skill and knowledge than sitting on a stool and blowing a whistle really hard.

The worst part is the expectations. Expectations that the parents know best. The unspoken rules that children don't have self-respect to bruise and parents don't have to say sorry. People who are barely 23,24,25 years old are somehow EXPECTED to know how to bring up a child. And because no one really corrects them, because no one really tells them "You're doing it wrong", few parents actually grow as parents. Even at 40, even with a teenage son, they still have the parenting skills of a 25-year-old. And the 15-year-old son rebels, like all teenagers do, but doesn't really LEARN any better. And when the time comes for him to become a parent, the vicious cycle continues. Even when the child knows what he is doing is wrong, he cannot change, because that would mean his parents were wrong. That is not something the Indian society allows us to believe.

So kids, even if you are a kid of 40 with parents in their 70's, accept that your parents made mistakes. Talk to them about your pain, your suffering, and how much it hurt that they never said sorry. Tell them that you can understand that they never meant to hurt you, but they made mistakes like every other human being does. It will be difficult. It will be difficult to say these words, and even more difficult to accept them yourself. But unless you do, you will be doing the same hurtful things to your children. You will make them suffer as you have suffered. And in the end, they will alienate you like you have alienated your own parents, in your own mind. I realize I am not talking to everyone out there. I don't care. I know you are out there. I know you cannot forget. You never will. Learn to forgive first, and then only can you forget.