The poem episode

Before every Rabindranath Jayanti (Pochishe boishakh, just gone by), the Bengali association in Ordnance Factory Chanda, conducted some competitions. Singing. Poetry. I think there was handwriting too. I don't remember much but there's this episode that I remember very well. There was this Tagore poem in Bengali that we had to recite. My age group had six participants in all. Some of them, I think all of them exist on my timeline even now, here. I had no interest in poetry spouting. We call it "Abritti" in Bengal. But Father wanted me to do this. There was a certain style he adopted while doing Tagore. First, the stance. Yes, he explained that the stance was also important. I couldn't be be very straight and open chested. I had to have an angle to the audience, as if I was reading from a book. A little angle. Just to show a bit of profile. Then, the pitch of the poetry has to be bass and gravelly. But one should be able hear me clearly even from the back of the room. I was, what, 13 years old back then. How much would that squeaky voice just about breaking then, would be that pitch, was questionable. Dissatisfaction. Father's angry face. Vigorous shakes of head. I had no clue. Then, the poem pronunciation. Tagore did not write easy stuff. At least it wasn't easy for people like me. I kept mucking things up. I could happily give up right then and there and go back to Dilip Doshi and his bowling India into a stupor. But no, father was getting as determined to get me right. That particular performance could have been my worst on public stage. That was the most rehearsed and yet the worst one. Of all things, the tension made me make the most elementary mistake that one can do. I forgot the poem in the middle. Anyway, God knows what merit was still seen. I got the third prize. Father was crestfallen. He couldn't believe that, I, his son, could be such a dunce on stage. He being the evergreen stage warrior. Poetry, play, compering, speech, everything he could do. So, that summer, just to compensate, I wrote my first poem. Shyly showed it to him. He was overwhelmed. He kept reading and rereading it. Of course, it had to be a bit layered and all that. Not the usual birds and skies kinds. He got that printed in that year's Puja souvenir book. It was in Bengali. Of course, I had done two poems in English post that first one. But he chose that one, the Bengali one, to send to the committee. Yesterday, I saw something on TV that brought back those memories. Fathers invest a lot of their selves in their children. Its a process. You may even call it vicarious. And they want their wards to succeed. Math. Physics. Electronics. Karate. Speaking. Singing. Cricket. Football. It's things that they like and want their kids to like too. Mothers on the other hand, just want kids to go out and excel even with things they don't know anything about. I sometimes feel that I could have done more during those young days to make Father more proud. Maybe that poetry, or some singing or that football gig I was good at, or that cricket batting that I had gotten very good at. A little bit more dedication would have done it. Or may be he went away too soon. Or may be he's watching over my shoulder as I am feeling reasonably proud of a daughter who goes to work every morning, even during her college holidays while other friends of hers enjoy the holidays. In white and black formals, just like I and Missus did, many years ago. She's preparing for a life that's not so black and white.