There was a time in my life when my biggest hobby, apart from breathing and writing poems, was hating one specific uncle. Not casually disliking. Not mild irritation.
No. This was full-blown, emotionally invested hatred. And why? Because my mother said so.
Now, in every Indian household, there’s an unspoken rule: If your mother dislikes someone, you don’t ask questions. You pick up a metaphorical sword and say, “Who are we attacking today?” So I did.
I was told this uncle had abandoned his parents in their time of need. That his wife had “brainwashed” him. That he had chosen distance over duty. Naturally, 12-year-old me, who couldn’t even choose between Frooti and Maaza without guidance, decided I had enough emotional intelligence to judge a grown man’s life decisions.
I was furious. But I didn’t stop at anger. Oh no. I escalated. I started sending him SMSes. Not normal messages. Not “Hi uncle, how are you?” No. I sent him philosophical guilt bombs copy-pasted from the darkest corners of the early internet.
“A plant should never forget who watered it.”
“A rose never grows on a rock.”
“Respect your roots before they dry out.”
I was basically a 7th standard poet with zero supervision.
I even wrote him poems. POEMS.
I don’t remember the exact words, but I’m 100% sure they were a combination of nature metaphors, emotional blackmail and grammatical crimes. And this man… This fully grown adult… Never replied. Not once. At the time, I thought, Wow. The attitude. The ego. The audacity.
Now I realize, he was probably just staring at his phone thinking,
“Who is this child and why is he emotionally attacking me with plants?”
Years passed. The hatred matured. Aged like bad milk. I didn’t just dislike him anymore; I had expanded my operations. I started disliking his kids, too. For no reason. Just… inherited hostility. A family subscription plan.
Cut to 35 years later. Plot twist. I know this man better now. Because… I am him.
Somehow, through the mysterious transmission of generational patterns, I have downloaded his entire personality.
Distance from family? Check.
Misunderstood decisions? Check.
People forming opinions without context? Oh, premium membership.
At some point, life humbles you. Not gently. Not poetically. It grabs you by the collar and says, “Remember that uncle you judged? Congratulations. Same to same.” And suddenly, all those dramatic SMSes I sent him… feel like evidence in a case where I am both the criminal and the clown.
I met him recently at a function. He was older now. Wrinkled. Slower. Human. Not the villain from my childhood imagination. Not the heartless son from the stories. Just… a man who had lived a life I never bothered to understand. He had made money. A lot of it. Built wealth. Saved aggressively. Probably argued about 2 rupees with shopkeepers for sport. And yet… There was a quiet sadness about him. That day, something hit me harder than my own bad poetry.
No matter how much money you make, or how many people you impress, or how many relatives you accidentally offend, health and happiness don’t come as part of the package deal. And standing there, looking at him… I didn’t just see him. I saw a trailer of myself. Not the rich version, unfortunately. Let’s not get carried away. Currently, I am what we call “budget-friendly sad.”
But here’s the difference I’m trying to hold on to: I may not have mountains of wealth. I may not be planning yearly vacations in Switzerland. But I have a wife and a son who are not secretly running a hate campaign against me in another room. And honestly? That feels like luxury.
So yes, I became the uncle I once hated. But maybe I can become a slightly better version of him. One who still messes up. Still gets misunderstood. Still makes questionable life choices. But ends up… Not rich and miserable. Not poor and dramatic.
Just…Poor and happy.
(And if life insists on upgrading me to rich and happy later, I promise I won’t argue too much.)
Comments