When I was eight, my mother used to ask me,
“What would you like to be when you grow up?”
and I would have a different answer for her every week.
But whatever my answer may be,
she would give me a certain look,
as if she was unhappy with my answer and say,
“No. You cannot be that, it is not for you.”
You cannot be a traveler. It is not for you.
And you cannot be a writer.
And certainly not a model.
You cannot design clothes. It not for you.
And you cannot go in outer space.
You cannot fight for peace. It is not for you.
And you cannot be a musician.
You cannot play football.
And, you certainly cannot be superman.
You cannot.
You CANNOT.
YOU CANNOT.
After a while, I stopped answering.
I started avoiding her.
Whenever she’d approach my room,
I’d climb out the window
with my cat that was called Cat
and we’d go free the birds
And we’d put the fish back in the sea
And we’d make paper boats with a guy who was funny
But mostly, we’d just sit and watch the rain.
And it did used to rain a lot back then.
Why does it not rain now?
I wish it would.
Farewell, to you my cat that was called Cat.
Anyway, every now and then,
I would talk to the Rain Gods,
up there in their cloud castles.
TELL ME O, RAIN GODS.
WHY CAN I NOT BE WHAT I WANT TO BE?
And they’d never reply,
except the occasional accidental thunder.
And in my anger and my disappointment,
I picked up a sketchbook
and I started drawing.
I drew all the things I wanted to be
in the hope that one day
I’d become one of those things
and then show my mom how wrong she was,
and how I’d laugh at the Rain Gods.
HA. HA.
SEE WHO I AM NOW.
And I drew
and I drew
and I drew.
Day and night.
Night and day,
I drew to prove my mom wrong.
And then I drew for my cat that was called Cat.
And then I drew for the guy who was funny
And then I drew for myself
I drew for myself.
I have these really thick sketchbooks now,
years of work,
full of drawings,
full of doodles,
full of sketches,
full of hope,
and dreams.
And when I glance through them,
and think of my dearly departed mother,
I wonder if she would discourage me,
intentionally.
Perhaps she wanted me
to be stubborn about my answers.
And show her that
I could become an astronaut,
a freedom fighter,
a musician,
or a designer
or anything else I wanted to be.
I do not remember if I ever told her
that I wanted to be an artist
( I certainly never drew a drawing of myself actually drawing) .
But I am one now.
So my dearly departed mother,
tell me from wherever you now are,
are you happy now?
All illustrations by| Vimal Chandran
Photos used with permission
Click here to see more work by Vimal Chandran: https://www.facebook.com/vimalpaintings
