Friday, 21 August 2009
Smiling through nothing more than a snooze after an entire week of exasperating sleep deprivation, I looked at my son, smart in his crisp whites, chin-up and thrilled to be back in school after a long and well-deserved break.
Having beat the rush hour, we reached school unexpectedly early that morning and with all room doors still shut and maintenance staff only just trickling in, there was not much else to do but wait.
The virtually empty school building worsened the heaviness in my eyes as we sat there, just the two of us, my little boy leaning on my knee. It’s been a year since we officially started life in Bangalore and one question repeated itself through the fatigue weighing me down into the cold steps outside the classroom: “Is there anything I wouldn’t do for my child?”
Again, I looked at his beaming face, now bobbing up and down along the row of floor tiles, when my eye caught the poster on the wall behind him. Boldly calligraphed was: “Many parents are so anxious to give their children what they didn’t have, they often neglect to give them what they did”.
My heart skipped a beat. Was the occurrence of my personal thought and the quote-spotting immediately after, mere coincidence? Or was it the simultaneous and sudden rumble of students pouring into classrooms and stairwells that startled me? While the bustle shook me out of what could well manifest as Monday morning stupor, a tirade of conflicting emotions and feuding arguments had set to work inside my very tired mind.
The moment did pass though, but those words lingered on in my head through the drive back home. The heavy traffic slowed my commute just enough to sketch out an intense mental process ... some people were about to receive a few calls.
I often think about my childhood. Between Dad’s vast army campuses and rich daily life, well-organised holiday travels and the annual Coorg break at Grandma’s, my growing years were a dream. What I had, far outweighed what I did not. And what I did not, I have to crane my memory to remember. What I do remember is this: smiles and grit. Whatever the situation. In trying to give my child all that I did have, I am left astounded at my parents – how did they manage it all?
On the surface, life today is easier than it has ever been before. With the amenities available (some even affordable), the opportunities accessible and information as ample as one’s intellect can take, a dream is the first step to achievement.
While most of our parents and even some of us, found inspiration in success stories only handed down or splashed across newspapers, our youngsters cross paths with the movers of our times. Sharing a stage with Bill Gates on invitation, shaking the hand of Vladimir Putin on a regular working day or enjoying the chance (and eventually, journey-long) company of our own Mr Narayan Murthy on a routine flight, certainly make great stories. But they are our own stories. And the more we tell them, the more lurks the prospect of another girlfriend recounting her days in college with Dr Manmohan Singh’s daughter (an inspiration in her own right).
As urban professionals, this is the kind of profile we share today – successful, effective, robust and possible as long as there is the dogged will to ‘make it’. If we don’t find it by chance, we seek it consciously. If we can’t secure the one kind, we will grab its image. For us, and eventually for our children.
On the inside, these very advantages come entrenched with a silent moat. The still waters keep a close watch and run deep with expectation. Anything that falls in creates a splash. The waves, however gentle, stir something within the ramparts inside. The pressures only build. And its intensity we alone, as individuals, will understand.
That is why, while at play, when the frustrated primary-schooler stamped on a newly acquired and obviously expensive electronic console, his parent very sympathetically waited it out. Getting another one of those gadgets was easy – who’s more valuable, the child or the gizmo? And after all, we are officially out of recession, you see. In contrast, reasoning with the child would require ‘time’ (this doting parent had just another 45 minutes of bonding time remaining) and winning back his favour after he had been drastically upset, would demand resolute ‘patience’: both premium commodities in corporate lives and understandably scarce in the increasingly dwindling personal.
As a doting parent of the other kind, questions and answers, perspectives and inferences, actions and reactions, events and evidence, transgressed relentlessly in my horrified senses. Did I dare confront that preoccupied parent? No. What business was it of mine, anyway? Well, here’s why it became my business: My child was an attentive witness to all of this. And however subtle its manifestations, none of us is oblivious to the power of negative influence.
So now that I, for no folly of my own, had been left the daunting task of ensuring that my child would never take his blessings for granted, should I have taken it up with the other parent?
After deep consideration, I believe, no. Why? Because I had something she did not – the luxury of time with my child. And my child had something his ill-tempered play-mate did not – the security of being with a parent for most of his time away from school. If I had upset my child, I had days upon days to explain my reprimand and the vices of unacceptable behaviour. I had the option to make it up to him in ‘time’ what the other parent would have to make up for in ‘kind’.
The rampant accusation we face today is that as parents, we are ridiculously ambitious for personal gain. As a result, we are becoming irrevocably indifferent and materialistic. Worse, we are passing this sentiment down to posterity. The usual show-cause validates part of the script on the wall as our permissiveness pans across the wish list irrespective of what we can provide personally. The full-time maid is always at hand to rub pain off a hurting elbow, the handy chauffeur will procure the last available batch of doughnuts from the exclusive confectioner and the friendly septuagenarian next door will be only too happy to play chaperone for the first show of Ice Age 3. We did not have, but we give. We can’t give so we have it given. All demands met, all expectations catered to, satisfaction levels among our youngsters should well be absolute. Right? It seems: Wrong.
So, really, is the inverse true of what we did have? I think it is a difference of realities. I can vouch for the carefree approach we had to everything back then. Cycling to school was a thrill, a sense of pride (even the secure Shaktiman trucks gave us, Army kids, a fair air of superiority). We had what everyone else had. What others did not have, we shared. Everyone around, meant something in our scheme of things. I can safely say our wants were simple. Our parents were with us through most of our ordeals. They did not have to trade an arm or a leg or stented artery to make us happy.
We came from a conservatism grounded in actuality and reason. What we could not have, we did not have – some showed rationale and others called it strict discipline. But that was enough because opportunities then, allowed contentment of this sort. We just did not know what else there was to get. As a society, the combination, I dare say, worked.
But today, the entire universe awaits our enterprise. Chameleon-like perspectives of success and blinding contention have rendered the finish line out of sight. Celebrity endorsements and ‘wish karo’ slogans, though motivational in themselves, personify the attitude of an entire generation that is racing mad. That this race is an unrelenting relay where even batons are designer-ware and every runner carries the dream of the passer, is a truth that gets lost in the frenzy of the very race. Everyone is out there for themselves. There is no time to stop and turn around. There is no time to think, let alone put up with thinking and its resultant tantrums.
It is a time to do. Our children are ticks on our goals-sheet and they live our unfulfilled lives. They have all the toys we wanted and all the pastimes we enjoy. In not realising all our dreams, we have already lost time. Now while we want to hang around to see our children achieving our triumphs, the sand is only sifting.
We are aware only of the quiet ripples closing in. Everyone is disturbed and every corner harbours threat. Our child is not free to roam the streets. We are not free to guide them through it. What we cannot give to our children from our childhood, we attempt to give from our present situation. We cannot create a safer world singlehandedly – we can only keep our children safe in the one we live. If we had the freedom to be, we give our children the freedom to be able to be. So what if a few moments of their happiness are mail-ordered or bought off a shelf? This is the contentment that we can afford to hand down, irrespective of any constraints. Indeed, we do not neglect to give our children what we did have, we give them as much as is possible and whatever aspect of it is applicable.
In the plethora of opportunities that open several doors today, though we should teach our children integrity and diligence, I am dismissive of depriving them of any reasonable advantage that we can add to their prospects. Time defines action and we have to recognise the call.
In building their resilience to life, however, and what it can throw back, I tend to agree with the indispensability of personal attention and importance of quality time – like many, I have the good fortune of showering them on my child. But for how many more of us, do individual aspirations and commitments allow this blanket freedom?
Our country did not gain her independence by staying content. We did not become a nuclear power by closing our eyes to progress. We are not a self-reliant generation by wishing less. Our children, irrespective of where they come from, dream big because we can go out there and build the launch pads.
Yet, the truth facing us is that a lot of our children lack regard for what has been given to them on a platter, that they keep wanting more and cannot endure reality; that as parents we are really not there for them enough. That’s a tough one for those of us who are doing the most we can. And against such odds, even parents like me, who actively strive to nurture humane values in our children and devote maximum time to them, are looking at an equally grim battle ahead.
What’s right, is open to judgement. And as adjudicators of our lives abound, our options attract harsher scrutiny. Can what our parents gave us, fortify us against this assault?
Sunday, 2 August 2009
I never know what will bolt out of Space when my little boy is on the watch.
Under his visor, this week, was a web page on Neil Armstrong. At school, having covered a short chapter on the astronaut, it so happened that my son’s first internet search on the man, coincidently, presented itself on July 20, exactly 40 years to the day Mr Armstrong first stepped on the surface of the moon.
Small step. Beat 1.
In the Language part of the same subject, the current topic of exploration is the Articles, a, an and the. We had completed an extensive worksheet and other exercises, by the end of which my son was quite a little master of their usage.
This is what shocked me earlier. He repeatedly intoned: “The-is-used-with-a-par-ti-cu-lar-noun-or-with-the-name-of-some-thing-that-is-one-of-its-kind. The-is-called-the-de-fi-nite-arti-cle. The-in-de-fi-nite-arti-cle-is-used-be-fore-a-common-noun-that-is-sing-ular-in-num-ber. A-is-used-bef-ore-a-con-so-nant-and-an-is-used-be-fore-a-vowel-sound. They-are-called-in-de-fi-nite-arti-cles”. Then he went on to the examples. Wait! He is seven. Should he even know these qualified definitions? Isn’t it just ample to explain the basic rule and get the kids to practice the usage? But I guess this needs to be addressed in another piece altogether.
Back to what beat me. Son in front of laptop, laments in high pitch: “This is wrong. He does not even know about articles!" Puzzled, I looked at the screen. In bold italics was a flash image of Neil Armstrong’s first words on the moon: That’s one small step for man; one giant leap for mankind.
My little boy was still frowning. He couldn’t have. My 2-day old Master of Articles couldn’t have! He exasperated, “which man mamma, and why is the man kind, anyway?” Sigh!
Well, I would just have to sit down with him again and go over, definitely, the indefinite, and particularly, the perfect. No problem.
But however the little guy understood it, the fact remained: Mr Armstrong, astronaut of astronomical significance, first man on the moon, indeed seemed to have missed an article! Not the particular kind NASA would provide but the one indefinitely used in a singular context and preceding a consonant sound in a sentence articulated by English speaking earthlings.
Giant Leap. Beat 2.
My task for the day, now, was this: distract my impressionable child from the grammatical gaffe of the first man to land on the moon and hence do Planet Earth proud. I had to impress upon him, instead, the greatness this man had achieved in completing a mission that would reconfigure the course of space travel and scientific scope thereof.
And then I would have to reiterate that at seven ‘he’, my son, would have to be absolutely sure of his a, an and the. To rocket to the moon, he would have to simply wait ‘for ages’ until he ‘grew up’.
At that precise moment though, I had to answer the question, “ ... and why is the man kind, anyway?” Of course, I also had to agree that as per what was taught in school that week, in omitting the Big A, Mr Armstrong had indeed uttered a contradiction as his opening statement to Moon. I have to say that the three inch smile beaming up at me was worth three times as many lunar landings!
But he is little, see? So information had to be dispensed suitably. And only what he would agree with without collision, could be imparted. Suffice to say, I survive. As does (thankfully) his grammar teacher at school.
Aside. Subsequent hearings of the transmission and accessible transcripts (nasa.com) have proven that Mr Armstrong did, in fact, articulate the a before the ‘man’ − bad radio signals between Moon and Earth had eclipsed the quick utterance. Can you imagine the gravity of the situation, had grammar, of all things weighty, let a moon-walking spaceman down?! End of aside.
But the week was still young. My teesra tigaada hadn’t struck. And culturally, it is common knowledge how No. 3 is considered, well, inauspicious.
Two days after the 40th anniversary of mankind obliterating all doubts about ‘a’ man (two, actually) conquering the moon, the moon was to obliterate the sun in totality. My once-in-a-century opportunity to personally witness this phenomenon was eclipsed by a long night of many questions and further articulations that indefinitely preceded the definitive event, early on Wednesday morning a fortnight back. In ‘consonance’ with all predictions prior to the event and its effects yet to follow, we still await eclipse No. 3 in this particular celestial triumvirate. What is to come?
Beat 3. Or third time lucky?
Incidentally, we are the third ball from the sun. And numeric placement wise, auspicious or not, it is a pretty, happy place to be, I say.