War by Luigi Pirandello

War by Luigi Pirandello

Rewritten   by RUCHIKA NAMBIAR.

This story has been rewritten in today's context, using "war" as a metaphor for the battle against the world and society and the idea of selling oneself for the sake of survival.

Dreams

"Children these days. They'll go on and live their lives," said mother. The words were correct, but the tone wasn't. She sounded resigned, as if living their lives was something they weren't supposed to do. Her voice floated up to me from the living room downstairs where she and my father were entertaining guests for dinner. No one they particularly liked, just people they believed it would only be proper to invite. After all, like and dislike are so trivial in the larger scheme of things where 'putting up with' is the only constant.

"It's all rubbish, I tell you," said a gruff voice I did not recognize. I immediately associated it with a big black mustache and cigar smoke. "One would think that after 20 years of providing for them and doing what's best for them, they'd have a little more regard for our opinions."

"Oh I know exactly what you mean," moaned a whiney female voice. "After all, we're so much older and so much more experienced. All this idealism...it just isn't good for them. Dreaming is alright for a while. But one needs to wake up sometime!"

"Oh you've seen nothing!" snapped a harsh voice. "Your children are still far too young to reach a stage where any of this makes any difference to them. I've seen my daughter's career crash and burn before my very own eyes. Everytime she's asked to cover a story that her highness thinks is not worth being told, she refuses. Flat out. What does one say for a girl like that?"

"Indeed," responded a voice that probably belonged to the father of the girl in question. "We try talking some sense into her, but my, is she stubborn. She says, "How do you expect me to live with myself doing something I don't want to? It's prostitution." Prostitution! Can you imagine?"

"My son," wailed another woman, "is off to study music. What kind of life will he be able to make out of that? How will he support himself? You say anything to them and they accuse us of trying to quash their dreams, when all we're doing is trying to protect them! We know the world is cruel and will bring them down in a second. But alas', they're so naive and optimistic. They say, "So the world might be cruel. That's my problem. Let me go out there and see for myself." One day they will come back crying and they will learn that we were right all along and all we said was for their own good."

"Compromise," said my mother. "That is what children must learn. They are thoroughly spoilt these days."

"Ah, dear" said my father in a calm voice. "They'll learn in time. Don't you remember how we were

when we were young? Filled with dreams and great big plans. Could anyone stop us back then? No? But look at us now with all our sense and wisdom. We must trust that our children will follow suit. What makes us think we can stop them now?"

And this pricked me more than any of the others - that they dared to comfort themselves by thinking that we might ever give in and turn out to be resigned and hopeless like them.

"I think we've had enough of this conversation," said a deep female voice. "Who are we to control our children anyway? It is of no use if they listen to us and stay unhappy for the rest of their lives now, is there? My son is an artist. But he seems happy. And in the end that's all that matters, isn't it?"

I sat up in my bed, my ears perked up. Could it be that there was someone who actually understood? Someone who understood that the world would go on no matter who did what with their lives? That no matter what you did, you'd survive anyway and the only real thing anyone should ever ever go for is their own happiness? That the only measure of the quality of life was happiness and satisfaction? Heck, I could forgive even a psychopath if it truly made him happy to kill. People die everyday anyway. But I'm just nihilistic. I don't expect this woman to be that extreme. She is an adult, a person who the world has tried to tame, but could she be someone who has actually understood the value of happiness?

"So you're...completely fine with your son being an artist?" my mother asked her, more than a little surprised.

"Well, I'd hoped he'd be a doctor," she responded. "But oh well."

I flopped back down. Resignation. Always resignation. Never full understanding or support. How foolish of me to think such an adult existed.

Two minutes later, I heard a knock on my door. "Come on downstairs and meet these people, they're very eager to see you," called my mother's voice from the hallway.

I got off my bed slowly, looked in the mirror and ran my hand through my hair, making sure it didn't look like I'd neatened up just to meet these people. Didn't want to give them that satisfaction, of course. Convinced with my look, I opened my door and walked past my mother. She followed me down into the living room.

As I approached, seven heads, all looking quite alike (even the men and the women; for they all had the same expressions), turned to look at me with recognizing smiles. I didn't bother distinguishing them from one another. It did not matter. The man closest to me (incidentally with a black mustache and smelling of cigar smoke; I'd guessed right) said:

"My my, look how you've grown."

I turned to smile sweetly at him and responded:

"My my. Look how you haven't."