I know I have managed to conceal it all these years. But I guess the time has come for me to confess.

You see I have been traumatized as a child. No, not in the way you are thinking. But traumatized I have been. How?

Let me explain.

First of all you must understand that my growing up years were in the sixties. Just a decade after our country got independence. And India was still getting over the freedom struggle. Coming to terms with its new found responsibilities. And discovering heroes in every corner.

Were you a freedom fighter? That was the first question any man, young or old, had to answer. And if you were, the next question would be “Were you sent to jail”. And by a strange process of social osmosis, the questions were tweaked and asked of us, the children of the sixties.

The difference was that we would be asked if our father…or even our grandfather, qualified to be called a Freedom Fighter. Did they protest? Did they go to jail? And the answers to these questions decided quite clearly our place in the hierarchy.

Your father’s stint in the jail…how long it was, or how short…was a benchmark of sorts. How many times he went to jail was the other. And if you were one of those who had left behind everything in Pakistan, you were King.

I hope you are able to understand the scenario that I was brought up in.

Now understand this…

My father was NOT a freedom fighter. I guess that could be forgiven. But even my Grandfather was not. Forget being an anti-English person, he was a sympathizer. He had contributed generously to the War Effort. Donated all his cars…a Plymouth, a Chrysler or was it a Studebaker…to the British Army. And maybe in return he was awarded the title of Rao Bahadur or something. He was also, as has been indicated to me. conferred the ICS.

While one section of the family was proud of what my grandfather had done, most of society was aghast. How could I, the grandson of a British Supporter be a friend of theirs? And while I used my native charm to overcome this particular obstacle, the problem would crop up at the drop of a flag.

Like a famous movie where the hero is branded the son of a thief, I was branded the grandson of a traitor. And that was a trauma I had to live with for years.

Thankfully we moved to Hyderabad, and there the equations changed. No one wanted to know about the freedom struggle. They had their Razakar nightmares to deal with. So slowly and gradually the tortured side of me was pushed into the background.

And I never thought the questions would arise again. How wrong I was.

In the last fifteen years or so, a new benchmark has evolved. It started with the Income Tax Raids. Were you raided? Do you know anyone who was raided? These questions and their answers determined whether you were socially at a level when you could be considered civilized. And sadly I was not raided. Nor did I know anyone who was raided.

Ok, I did know some people. Vijay Mallya. MAM Ramaswamy. And others of that group. But they were not my friends. And did not do anything to add to my stature.

Luckily the IT stigma soon became passé. And other accomplishments began to count. How much money had you managed to raise from the Public Issue Scams. How many cars, how many acres of land, how many foreign trips…all these became temporary milestones.

I was quite comfortable answering all these questions in muted terms. But then, my old enemy resurfaced. Imprisonment!

But this time I was ready. And armed.

I realize now that I have had good friends and colleagues in prison. I’ve had major clients in prison. Some were part of a massive siphoning of funds scam. Others were part of fraud and forgery. Man, I was right up there with the well connected, even if I was not in the well heeled circle.

What can I say? I am only happy that my children need not suffer at the hands of cruel society the way I had to. They can truthfully answer that their father knows a lot of people in prison. They can happily confess that their father has broken the law many a time during prohibition. Oh their Dad is exemplary.

I am however confused. Do I feel happy that my children find me qualified. Or sad that the qualifications I have now are criminal…