My Father's 'Prasadam' for the Party High Command
ACTIVISM
I’m writing this because I saw a post here last week about a corporate initiation, and it felt… amateur. Innocent, almost. I want to talk about a real initiation. The kind that cements a legacy.
I was 17. Not in that naive, giggly way. I’d grown up in a Lutyens’ bungalow. I knew the difference between the smile my father gave a journalist and the one he gave a party fundraiser. I knew power wasn't in the speeches on TV; it was in the whispers in the study after midnight.
My father’s career had stalled. He was a senior minister, but he was being sidelined for the big one—the Home Ministry. The final decision rested with one man. The ‘High Command’. A walking institution, ancient, smelling of mothballs, old paper, and single malt. He was coming to our home for a ‘private dinner’. My mother was told to be away, visiting family. That was the first signal.
The night he arrived, my father sat me down. Not in a pleading way, or a forceful one. He spoke to me like a business partner. He explained that our family hadn't just built a career; we had built a dynasty. And dynasties require sacrifices. He used the word ‘prasadam’—a holy offering to a god to receive a blessing.
He said, "He is an old man. He doesn't want money. He doesn't want promises. He wants to feel... relevant. He wants to hold the future in his hands. You, my dear, are the future."
There was no crying. There was no argument. It was the clearest lesson he ever taught me. I understood it with a cold, perfect clarity. This was my entrance exam.
After dinner, my father left the study. I walked in. The air was thick with the smell of his imported cigars. He didn't look at me with lust. It was more... appraisal. Like a zamindar inspecting a prize horse. He patted the leather armchair next to his.
He asked me about my A-levels. About Oxford. All very paternal. Then he put his hand on my knee. His skin was like dry parchment, covered in liver spots. "Your father is a good man," he said. "But he is weak. He needs a push. You have your mother's eyes, but your grandfather's spine. That is good."
I didn’t flinch. I just looked at him.
He told me to kneel. The carpet was expensive Persian wool, but it was still scratchy against my bare knees. He didn't undress me. He just pulled up my skirt. It was methodical. Impersonal. Like signing a document. His breathing was laboured, a soft, wet wheezing. It wasn't violent. It was worse. It was… administrative. A transaction.
Throughout the entire thing, which couldn't have been more than ten minutes, he kept talking. Not about sex. About politics. About which bureaucrat to trust, which industrialist was a snake, how my father's rival had a weakness for young boys from Manipur. He was downloading a lifetime of secrets into me, directly. The physical act was just the seal on the envelope.
When he finished, he grunted. He adjusted his khadi kurta, took a sip of his whiskey, and said, "Tell your father the portfolio is his. And tell him to start grooming you. We need more people like you."
I stood up. I straightened my skirt. I didn't feel dirty. I didn't feel violated. I felt… anointed. I had a power my father had begged for. The old man hadn't taken anything from me. He had given me my first piece of leverage. I now owned a secret that belonged to the High Command himself.
I walked out of that study and saw my father pacing in the hall. He looked at me, his eyes full of pathetic, desperate hope. In that moment, the dynamic between us shifted forever. He was no longer just my father. He was my first subject.
Two weeks later, he was sworn in as the Home Minister.
So, when you all talk about your 'taboo' experiences, I have to ask. Are you talking about pleasure? Kinks? Or are you talking about power?
For those of you born into this world, what was your 'prasadam' moment? The one where you truly understood the price of your surname?
contact id - 70mm/tabooisticfamily