My Journey To Stoicism: When Anger Defined Me And Why It No Longer Does

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Angry young man.

That was the sobriquet I earned, naturally enough, as a lanky teenager - and it clung to me even after I had become a married man, with the semblance of a restless youth still crouching inside.

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My political baptism happened early, in primary school. Trained to sniff out politics in every social issue - family included, later on - I reacted as instinctively as breathing: I got angry with everyone and everything that's part of the establishment.

A clenched fist punching the air, haughtiness etched across my face, a sharp tongue lashing out with toxic slogans - these were my signatures, the idiosyncrasies my family would rather forget. Violence, I declared, was a justifiable weapon for any social cause. Blood will have blood - that was scrawled in red across my personal manifesto.

Even elders at home were not spared if I judged them to be in the wrong. I fought tooth and nail whenever I believed I was right.

One evening, my father's patience snapped.

“We are in a national Emergency. Political leaders are being jailed. How can you justify carrying Maoist literature in your pocket? And you were so careless that I found it while ironing your pants!” His fury burned hotter than mine.

“I don't care. We have an Emergency to fight. This is our resolve, and it's time India stood up as one force. Those who are not willing to join forces are political Judas,” I shot back, walking out before his hand could befell me.

My memories of Dad are riddled with such encounters. I never hesitated to shout back:“No, Dad, you are wrong. Please don't justify.”

That angry young man has now withered into something else - like a toothless dog watching the world drift by. A dog in deep slumber, rearing its head only to howl at the moon.

That angry young man now longs to feel anger again. When did I lose the fire? When did I lose the ability to get emotional? To cry? To burn?

Why am I so stoic now?

In the newsroom, I long ago believed that to err is human, but to forgive is unprofessional. I don't shake my head in disgust any more. Instead, I pull out a notepad and explain, as patiently as I can, the unreasonable and unjustifiable complexities of the English language. The old fret and fume have given way to quiet explanations. These days, I drive home past midnight with a light heart, sometimes with a coffee break along the way.

The other day, gold went as God in a market news headline. My new incarnation simply said:“Be more careful, guys.”

If I were to replay some unfortunate scenes from the past, the narratives would run differently.

“Did you see the rare kukri I brought from Kathmandu? It was right here in my study, sitting proudly on a stand.”

“I threw it away,” wifey shot back.

“What? Why on Earth would you do that?”

“It glared at me every time. I felt it was the sword of Damocles hanging over me. It unnerved me just to look at it.”

“Are you out of your mind? And the masterpiece in black stone - the African Thinker?”

“That statue looked haunted, jinxed, demonic. I gave it to the trashman.”

And then, in retaliation, a couple of Polki necklaces I had brought from Turkey went flying out the window.

The old me would have raged, sulked, demanded explanations. The new me would have said simply:

“Never mind, my love. If you didn't like them, I don't either. I don't want trespassers in our Lovedale.”

I doubt I can ever recover my old firepower. Perhaps I no longer have the time. Just last week, a longtime friend wrote to me:

“It's not about you. I just need space to untangle my thoughts and feelings. I fear I've been unreasonable with my emotional demands. Let me be, until I find my balance again.”

I didn't cry. But the words cut deeper than I could bear. The pain was unspeakable, almost physical. All I managed to say was:“Be happy - with or without me. Everyone deserves a break and space.”

Later, alone, I buried my face in my palm and wept. It felt as though I was mourning the death of my true self.

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