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| Of being a parent... |
| Friday February 26, 2010 |
| To say the last ten months have been hectic will be an understatement... No this is not about work but what happens after I go home. Six months after becoming a father I'm still not fully in the grasp of what it means. You see my parents made me and my sister the centre of their universe. Everything... I really mean everything they did was for us. That selfless classical mode of parenting seems a far cry from my utterly self-engrossed generation. Yes I love my daughter... but I also love my work, my dreams, my friends and my relaxation. Does this mean I love my ten-month-old bundle of joy any less? No, I don't ! Yet I admit there is a difference between my dad and me being a dad. My anxiety over these thoughts has only quadrupled from the first time I got to know the stork was visiting. Enough about me and on to little Tanvi who still can't talk. But that hasn't stopped her from having everyone in the family wrapped around her little finger. She wakes up religiously around four in the morning and insists that the entire household gather to play with her till 7.30 am when she goes back to sleep. So picture this. While my wife Sapna is rocking her pleading with her to sleep, me and her grandmother juggle between gathering toys which she throws down every few seconds and clapping and singing to her. All this with her gurgling, squealing, chortling and crying punctuated by our collective yawns. It is a wonder the housing society hasn't served us an eviction notice for the early morning cacophony! We've tried to keep her up till late, change her feed timings among other things to ensure that she sleeps in the early hours (at least) but all our plans come to nought everyday around 4.00 am. I thought my mother, given her experience, would know about this. So I asked what can be done to keep both little Queen Sheba and her subjects (yes, that's the way I've begun to think of myself) happy. And she began laughing. According to her this adjustment happens automatically. "There will be lot of trial and error going on but you will eventually find your groove. Seeing that she was not sounding satisfactory she recounted this story: My mother's family had migrated from Jabalpur in Madhya Pradesh (Jubbulpore in Central Province in that era of course) to a sleepy last narrow gauge rail head Talaguppa in Karnataka. My grandfather who was with the railway police got posted there. Most of my six mamas and three maasis (quite the brood, wasn't it?) were born there. The choice was between sending the children to the local Kannada medium school or not giving them education at all. Wisely, the first was chosen. Till the eighth standard my mother Leela had built quite reputation for herself as the class brute. Much of this came from a fiery temper (its still around) and a propensity to land a well-aimed punch on anyone who dared her (this luckily has vanished). One of those fights (over stolen raw mangoes, no less!) had led to a bloody nose and a written complaint being sent home. Knowing her father's wrath she decided to find the easy way out and put his signature on the note herself. With a small face she handed it to her Headmaster Ranganath Rao who looked at the sign and asked, "Who's sign is this?" "My father's sir," came the reply. When the teacher told her to go back to class there was a spring in her step thinking how easy it was to con teachers. But trouble came calling that evening when the teacher came home on his way back from buying groceries. Well the cat was out of the bag. And my livid grandfather grabbed her by the arm asking, "did you sign for me?" Scared she kept quiet only to receive a resounding slap. When this didn't work he picked up the rope used to tie buckets for drawing water from the well and announced loudly, " I don't want a cheat for a daughter. Also she's not admitting her mistake. So I'm going to drown her." He said with a wink at the teacher which my mother didn't see. She began whimpering. Ignoring her, he tied the rope around her waist and dragged her to the garden behind. When he'd lowered her just that wee bit, my grandmother let out a howl. "Don't cry for the little cheat," he scolded, "see she's not telling the truth even now," and continued to lower her. And then Leela called out, "Father if you are going to drown me at least let me have two of mangoes we've kept for ripening." That was enough to melt my grandfather's heart. In tears, he pulled her out, hugged her and showered her with kisses. And yes she was fed the mangoes! Okay I really don't know whether I approve of anyone hitting their child so I think I'm going to leave the disciplining to Sapna my wife. But I still wonder will the little Tanvi stump us like this ever? This also brings to mind another favourite parenting story. This one's also about disciplining and involves a dear Parsi friend Mahrooque. Now Mahrooque's dad was posted in Pune during her graduation. All her friends in college were learning Kathak so she too joined them much against her parents wishes. After graduation Mahrooque left both Pune and Kathak behind and came with her family to Mumbai. Here she completed her post graduation, met the love of her life(a naval officer), married and now has a seven-year-old son and a nine-year-old daughter. A few months ago she found two of her friends from Pune on Face book who are also in Mumbai and met them at her place for a late lunch. She invited them over on day when the hubby was out at sea and the kids at school. After exchanging comments on each others families, marriages and life suddenly Mahrooque's friend Vibha asked, "I hope you still dance? You were so good!" The other friend Manjiri immediately suggested that Mahrooque give them a performance. She tried to wriggle out the situation saying there was no appropriate music but her friends managed to find Amar Prem on the CD rack and so she began to dance to Bada Natkhat Hai Re. No sooner had she reached the antara and the bell rang. Vibha leapt up and gestured she'll get the door asking her to continue. At the door was Darayas, Mahrooque's son who heard the music and rushed in. He glowered at his mother flung his water bottle and ran in palpably disturbed. "Shoon thayoon dikra (What happened)?" Mahrooque ran after him to ask. After some digging he raised his head from the pillow in which he was hiding it and asked, "why are you dancing in that funny way?" She tried to make him understand that she loved it and had only done it at her friend's insistence but he began bawling so she comforted him realising that she might have embarrassed him. The friends ate and left but Mahrooque kept smiling at the way her young son had reacted to her dancing. And that's when she got a bright idea. Little Darayas keeps insisting that she buy him expensive games, toys and clothes and often throws a tantrum when he's refused. Now whenever she takes him out and he starts to create a scene all she does is hold her hands in mudra and threaten to break into a dance right there. "Its always worked like magic," she told me with a wink. Hmmm... since I was born with two left feet wonder whether my dancing will have a similar effect on my daughter Tanvi? Then again.. maybe it will... |
A social worker by training. Yogesh has been a journalist for the past 15 years. When he is not chasing development stories you can catch him at a classical music concert.
