Parenting, memories

  

Where did that dog

that used to be here go?

I thought about him

once again tonight

before I went to bed.

-Shimaki Akahiko

Prologue

“What’s after six?”

“Five,” said my daughter. She’s three now.

“No. On the other side?”

Pause. Head scratching. “Seven?”

“Yeh! High-five!”

Messy house

House is in a perpetual mess. One of these days, if you enter our house unannounced, you’ll feel like you have entered a cowshed by mistake, and you turn around to find the right entrance on the other side. Only to realize there’s no other entrance.

I think there’s some kind of evil pleasure in leaving things around——creating the mess. That’s what the little devil has been doing these days. Initially we, parents, tried to maintain order; But as soon as you straighten one room, things fall apart in the other, and then after sometime you are so tired with this routine, you leave everything to God.

Kabir Das once went on a long search to find bad guys. He could not find one. But when he looks into himself, he admits, he’s the worst of all. Anyway, I once circled the neighbourhood searching for a messier house. And, like the mystic poet I too have failed. But when I see our house, I admit, it is the messiest.

A pause

Kids are like sponges. You’ll be amazed, how they absorb only the bad things from parents. Ria has noticed me struggling on the weighing scale, often. (Something is wrong with the weighing scale at home; the numbers never come down.)

One day, she decided to check her weight herself. Only she didn’t use the weighing scale. I heard the cracking sound from the couch. And realized immediately something important had broken. I dashed for the rescue. Picked her up. When I saw what she was standing on, my heart cringed.

“This is a laptop, not a weighing scale!”

Laptop survived though. I guess the Quality Control teams of these laptop makers have young moms, who consider households with small children. Maybe the laptops are built to withstand such harsh treatments. But certainly no laptop is waterproof. I have found this out recently, when she spilled milk on the key board. Now some of the keys work and some don’t. ‘E’ is not working——the most used letter. The Pause key is working——though I don’t have any use for it. I don’t remember the last time I used the PAUSE key on my laptop! In fact I have forgotten the very use of this key!

What I want now is a pause button for my life. Yes. That’s what I want. I want to pause this life, tear this computer screen, come out and sit next to you. I want to listen to your stories. You have listened enough of mine. Now it’s your turn. I would appreciate a cup of tea, if that’s not much of an inconvenience. Tea and Britannia Good Day biscuits. That’s my dream: sitting next to you, eating tea-dipped Britannia Good Day biscuits, and listening to your stories. How about that?

Preschool

She goes to preschool now. I was not in any hurry to put her into school; but she pestered so much, we had to give in. No one in our family was so excited to go to school——certainly not me. I went to kindergarten only for a few days; there when I saw the kids fighting their turns for the rocking horse that didn’t make any advance, I got an idea about our education system. After that I made such a ruckus not to go to school, I was allowed to loiter at home.

Later, whatever I learned at school only helped me in getting good grades, but didn’t prove to be of any use in real life. All those theorems and math equations really were of no use to me. In college, when I learned ‘sin square theta plus cos square theta equals one’, I asked myself, where in the world am I going to use this? And, sure enough, I have never used any of that stuff till today; and now, after so many years after college, I have to recollect the wretched math equation just to show you how useless it is. I learned Languages, History, Geography etc. in school. But the technical knowledge that was needed in the outside world was not taught at college.

After the college, in the initial days of job hunting, the interviewers laughed looking at my resume; since, the computer languages I had mentioned——the ones taught at college——were outdated before I was born! I had to do a six month’s emergency crash course to bring myself up to speed. In these six months I learned more than 4 years of engineering.

My grandfather, Louis Serao, a wonderful gentleman——it’s possible you would have ran into him if you ever attended Kinnigoli’s weekly market fair——one who, if you start writing about, you’ll end up in long sentences, fragments,  redundant adjectives, dashes and commas, as far as I know, never used Calculus, or any second derivative math equations,  or iPhone or email id. Yet, he lived up to 90, enjoyed his life to the fullest. And at that late age, like the great writers Hemingway (suicide), Virginia Wolf (Suicide), Sylvia Plath (suicide), Gogol (suicide), Jerzy Kosinski (suicide), he lost hope on the mankind. Grandpa didn’t commit suicide; he just lost hope. I wonder where people get such ideas.

School bag

Ria had to have her choice of school bag. Her mom suggested better ones. But the options were ignored and the brightest bag with Disney character Tinker Bell was chosen. The bag is huge. Half her size. In it, she can haul college books easily, if she retains the bag that long. Every guest, visitor gets a free demo of its features. School bag has put her on cloud nine; I wonder when was the last time I was that happy? Or will I be so happy ever?

“I miss you,” she said, after the first day at school. I asked myself: when was the last time someone, anyone for that matter, had said those words to me? And, regretfully, after rattling past memories, I need to inform you this: no one. So here I am, a loner whom no one will miss if I have to leave this planet right now. Suddenly I feel like I am standing alone on the divider of NH-17 highway, somewhere near Surathkal bus-stand, while express buses dash on both sides with great speed.

On the second day after the school, she fought with her mom, not to come back. Beats me. It’s a miracle. I, on the other hand, went to school only to please Mom. Not going to school was not an option. Mom is like thousands of Mangalorean moms who want their children to be number one in everything. Even now, with all my writing, she’s not impressed. The fact that I didn’t make any money from almost a decade of writing, is pricking her heart. Such a waste of time she says.

In her time, Mom had to wake up early and work in our rice fields, before going to school. Grandma was strict. She made all her children work in the farms. Though Mom was an early riser, I’m sure she never took a break to enjoy the sunrise. In her free time, she had to weave flowers. But I can assure you she never stopped to smell the very flowers she was weaving. She didn’t have time for such finer things. Life was tough. Even after her marriage, when life became a bit easier, she got blessed——ha ha ha——with 3 demanding kids in a short span of time; at least one of them was doomed to become a failed artist. Because of this background things without monetary values became useless to her. She is quite a pragmatic person.

I was paid once though. When I was in Bahrain, I wrote a small article to an American website. As a token of appreciation, they mailed me a $25 cheque. The bank in Bahrain said, being an international cheque, they’d charge around 12 Dinars, which in fact is more than $25. Any sober person would have ignored the whole thing at this point. But deep inside I am a poet and a romanticist, I had to convince myself that writing is worth it. So I ended up paying from my pocket to clear the cheque.

Cartoons

I have opposed, in my past articles, children watching cartoons. I take that back now. Sometimes it’s a blessing, especially when you need a few quiet moments. In those times, I make her sit in front of the TV——switch on her favorite cartoon. (Right now, she’s watching cartoons in the next room.)

I have watched more Disney animation movies in the last few months than in my whole life. When I was a kid, we had only 2 VHS tapes of Tom and Jerry. I watched them all the time——again and again. Now there are so many cartoons. Some of them are violent, meaningless, and painful to watch. Only a few months ago, I was unaware of the existence of such cartoon characters as Tinker Bell, Dora, Caillou, George, and Martha. The last one is her current favorite.

It seems that the dog, Martha, accidentally ate alphabets and instead of going to its tummy, these alphabets went to its head. And, now the dog talks! This is probably the dumbest idea. I know. It doesn’t deserve mentioning here. But my daughter loves the dog.

If a big word pops up in the conversation, the show kind of pauses, and the dog turns to its viewers and spells out the word. Also, gives a few possible meanings. Sometimes it asks questions to the audience, and waits in anticipation for the answer. Sometimes there are long lectures on what the good kids should do and don’t.

All this preaching is a big NO in adult fiction. Writers can no more lecture their readers; although, such a thing was prominent in Victorian literature.

Learning

Before the child, I had this constant feeling that I am in a Satyajit Ray movie: nothing happened for long periods of time. Now I feel like I am in a Mangalore-Udupi express bus. She has become mischievous and overly imaginative: eats only the center circles of bread slices; Quietly enters the room while I am writing, switches off the light, runs away and hides; has developed a strong liking for licking ice cubes, and shuts my mouth while I talk on the phone. (Imagine the last thing, while explaining a critical thing to a client.)  

A few days back, She tried to staple my finger. In a sense I am metaphorically stapled to frozen time. You’ll notice this when you read my short-stories. The super-ideal characters have baffled many readers. Where do such people exist? They have asked me. And, I have gracefully accepted, these people exist only in my imagination.

“Can you hold my hand?” I asked her in the crowded mall, one time.

“Why?”

“I’m scared,” I said. “I might get lost here.”

“Don’t be scared. You are a big girl now.”

She cannot differentiate a boy from a girl. So she has by-hearted this information. It is so silly. This notion of roting logical things probably she got from me.

At school, I was extremely good at by-hearting. I would even by-heart math problems. The same problem with different parameters would have multiple copies in my head. I was so good at this, I was one of the toppers. Here’s what I have to say: In any school, if the topper is a person whose way of learning new things is roting——then there is something wrong with the system. Don’t you agree?

Such people, whose Modus Operandi is roting, should not join computer industry. I did exactly that, and had a tough time in the initial days of my career. Most computers are dumb——they understand only 0s and 1s. Imagine talking to a person who understands only two words: Yes & No. How do you communicate with such a person? In short, to make these dumb-computers work intelligently, whoever programs them, need to be quite logical.  

Only much later in my career, I realized that any complex idea can be dissected into smaller, simpler parts, which are easier to digest. This applies to writing as well. Writers who lack clear thoughts, use jargon and convoluted language. (Convoluted? Gosh! Should have used a simpler word!)

Epilogue

One day she offered me water in a small plastic cup from her kitchen set. She cooks imaginary dishes for me now and then. Sometimes I ask her to add more salt or ask for a second serving. This is a kid game. But might turn out fatal for writers. I am now at a position where I am slowly losing the sense of reality. When I read some of the stuff I had written in the past, I am not sure if those things really happened or they are just my imagination.

Anyway, the water in the cup was real; I saw the little circles. She signaled me to drink. I was about to oblige, but  then  I realized she cannot reach any of the water taps in the house.

“Where did you get the water?”

At first she refused; after much cajoling, she obliged finally, pointed to the commode.

Note: 
If you liked this one, you might like to read my other memoirs. Click here for more.

This article was published on www.daijiworld.com. Click here to read it on Daiji. 

Sun is sleeping

The old pond;

A frog jumps in —
The sound of the water.
-Matsuo Bashô

From the couch I saw my daughter pulling out the kitchen chair in the far corner; the chair is taller and twice heavier than her. She used the chair to climb onto the table; and, slowly opened the chocolate box, which I had thought was out of her reach. She had approached the table quietly——knowing I’ll be into my book. But once you have a child, you cannot really concentrate on anything. You always have a background thread going on in your head, on her whereabouts. I dashed to the table——caught her red handed. This made her jump; but, when she realized it was the lenient parent, she got relaxed.

“Only one,” she said. I pointed to the fistful of chocolates. She dropped all in the box, retained one. I checked the box; there were a few left on the bottom. Over the days, she had finished most of it. Chocolate monster!

I carried her down. "No eating too much chocolate,” I said.  Two-and-half now. Why this? Why that? All the time. Thank God, there’s Google. I know now more animals, more birds, more colors, and more flowers.

One time, she pointed to a tiger in the picture book, and said ‘fox’. Then she pointed to a lion and said ‘Yellow’. I was alarmed. Did she mess up everything? Do we have to start all over again? Then she smiled mischievously; told the correct names pointing to the right pictures, laughing all the time——she was just messing with me. She was in a good mood.

On such occasions, she calls me ‘Lobo’ or ‘Ravi uncle’. In India, our neighbors taught her that her dad’s name is panji——pig; so sometimes she calls me, panji Lobo.

There are a few genuine screw-ups too. One time she saw a shark on TV and exclaimed:  “airplane!” and once she called a Kangaroo, ‘Pengaroo’. That’s because of the Penguins.

In fact, I myself cannot differentiate many things: sheep, lamb, and goat; shrimp and prawn; crocodile and alligator; tortoise and turtle. (For long, I thought the bigger ones in the sea are turtles and the smaller land cousins are tortoises; but it is not true.)

She knows four colors: yellow, purple, red, and orange. She can name more, but cannot really match them. She also doesn’t have a sense of time. When she says ‘Tomorrow’, she means sometime later. ‘Yesterday’ could be yesterday or anytime in the past. But when she says ‘Now’, she means NOW. “I want it now,” is such a big pain. Sometimes I reason with her; why we cannot watch cartoons; it’s night and sleep time. She listens patiently. Nods to everything I say and responds, “I want it now.”

Occasionally, I manage to distract her: “What’s this stupid dragon doing in the closet?” I say, and we both go on a dragon hunt.

Sometime ago there was another Ria in the community. So one was ‘Big Ria’ and my daughter was ‘Baby Ria’. The other family has moved out. But the name stayed.

“What’s your name?”

“Baby Ria.”

She thinks ‘Baby’ is her name.

She talks in rhymes.

“How much do you love Mamma?”

“Too-much Too-much.”

“and Dada?”

“Little-Little.”

My wife has cast a spell on her. If you ask my daughter: do you like Dada or gutter-water? She would opt for the latter.

She makes small sentences, and fragments. I like to irritate her. When she asks questions to Mamma, I jump in and give wrong answers. “I’m not talking to you,” she says. I think she picked that line on the TV. I myself haven’t used any such line with my parents, never——they would have thrown me out. In fact, only now, in my articles I pull their legs, otherwise all along I was a nice kid, except probably in my teens.  

And sometimes, my complaints are taken to Mamma. “Dada not listening to me.”

The only time I might ignore her——that too for few seconds——is when I read something interesting. It takes a small lag to comeback to the real world. But by then she would have run to Mamma with my complaint. (You cannot become a good writer, if you don’t listen. Probably the greatest writer to follow this advice was Maugham. He had a bad stutter. Maybe, because of that he would listen all the time. Even eavesdrop on strangers. Then copy the exact dialogues in his books. He’s one of the most read authors! His books are wonderful.)

In my school days, I was not allowed to read novels. I used to hide in the bathroom, for hours——reading books. Even now, If I find something interesting, I lock myself in the bathroom and read. 

“Lobo, where are you?” She bangs on the door.

“Give me 5 minutes.”

“Watcha doin? Come out?”

Children are so impatient. Sometimes when I’m working on the laptop, she turns off the lights.

“Shooo Dolly is sleeping,” she says. Dolly goes wherever she goes. Sleeps with her. Dolly has the status of a real person. I learned this the hard way——when I used Dolly as a pillow. Something hit me hard on the face. And, Dolly was yanked off. “No sleeping on Dolly,” I heard the warning. Some toys can be effectively used as weapons.

I used to write in the evenings. She won’t allow it anymore. Why write about her, when she is right there to play. Now, I wake up one hour early and write. If you want to become a writer you should write daily. No other tricks.  (Sometimes while I am writing, from the bedroom I hear the sleepy question: “Where’s Dada?”)

Once I woke in the middle of the night and found her awake. I tried to say something.

“Shoo Dolly is sleeping,” she said.

“When will YOU sleep?”

“Tell me story,” she said.

I am very poor at children’s stories. I know only one story. I repeat that one all the time. Children’s stories are much different than the ones for grownups. Children like repetition.

5 little monkeys jumping on the bed one fell off…  

4 little monkeys jumping on the bed…

A grownup would know instantly where this is going, and toss the book immediately. But the kids like it. They love the sound of repetition. You can raise the monkey-count to 75 in the above poem, and a child would still love it.

In the only children’s story I have cooked up, she’s a character. She makes a guest-appearance in the story. She likes to hear about herself. In fact the character in the story (her alter ego) is a better version of herself: Drinks milk; Brushes teeth twice; Eats mum-mum. All without any fuss. She knows this. Knows the character in the story is better; but she’s like——what do I care?

So painful to make her eat anything; things she doesn’t like are ‘picy’——she cannot say spicy.

“Are you nice-baby or kakka-baby?”

“Kakka baby,” she pushes away the plate. This trick had worked in the past. You can ask her if she is nice or kakka, and she would do the nice thing for you. Not anymore.

Soon I’ll be out of tricks. Sometimes I say, “How come you look beautiful today? Did you drink too much milk?”

She likes that. I don’t know how long this one would work. One fine day, she might say: I would rather be intelligent than pretty.

Whenever she dresses up, she comes to me for approval. She stands at distance, cross legged, and head hung on one side. ”Wow,” I say, “You look so pretty.” The need for attention comes so early.

And, sometimes, I hear a shriek: “I want Dada!” This means she has done some mistake and, Mamma has punished her. That’s the only time she needs me. When I hear this jungle—cry I need to leave whatever I am doing, and run for the rescue. I have told her that it’s okay to make mistakes. Everyone makes them. Pencils have erasers etc. “Just say by-mistake,” I have said——Mamma would understand.

Before she came in my life, I could leave a book on the stairs, or at the kitchen sink, and there would be no question of not finding it at the same spot hours later, when I would come looking for it. But, now, If I leave a book on a low place, it’ll will be gone, I might find shredded paper, but mostly the book would have been vanished.

One day, I was reading a book; she snatched it and vanished in one of the rooms. Then she came back, and flourished the fingers. “Magic,” she said. I searched for it desperately, but the book is gone. She’s not telling me either. The next day she forgot the whole thing. I was at an interesting point when she took away the book. It’s a short story collection. I don’t know the name of the book. The story will haunt me to my grave.

On my book shelf, between classics and writing books, a small section is reserved for her. Her books are small and bright. They have many big pictures and a few sentences. A picture explains many things! (Very few writers narrate picturesquely: Tolstoy, Proust.)

People have different fears. Some don’t like spiders, some snakes. I cannot change diapers. I know what you are thinking. But, it’s just not my thing.

Now she is potty trained. So things are not that bad. One day she was in the bathroom with Mamma; I heard the command: “I want Dada!”

Gosh I said, not now! I gave her hundred reasons, why Dada might not be the right person for the job. She listened carefully, nodded in agreement, then said: “I want Dada!”

So now that I have done the stuff, I feel there are 2 types of men in the world: those who have washed the bums of their kids and those who haven’t. I belong to the former one——the holier among the two. I am now, a Kevalin. Nothing else matters.

Parenting is an experiment: what works for one child doesn’t for another. So you keep experimenting till the kids become parents! I have raised my voice only twice, so far. Sounds like an annual event. I do have the patience of a vulture. But sometimes she just gets on my nerves. Last time when I raised my voice, a little, there was much wailing and screaming, followed by kicking the nearest toy, and throwing the milk bottle, and then banging the door to lock herself in the bedroom. Luckily the door doesn’t self-lock. I am not surprised at her. I was like that too, but not at two——I was unmanageable in my teen years. My parents considered many a times to drive me to a distant desert and leave me off.

“Can you get me some See-O-Kay-E?” I ask my wife from the dining table. She brings me Coke in a china cup.

“You want milk?” I ask my daughter. Offer the cup.

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Sure.”

I am going straight to hell. They will put me in hot water or fry me on the giant pans. There’s no forgiving for my sins.

Once, she made a big fuss about going out at midnight. I reasoned with her; why we cannot go tata; it’s night and no sun and dark outside. All in vain.

Plan B:

“Are you nice-baby or kakka-baby?”

“Kakka baby,” she replied.

Plan C:

“What’s this dragon doing in the closet?”

That didn’t fly either. So we decided for a small ride. The moment we were out of the parking lot——she started snoring. Since we were out anyway, we went ahead with the ride, roamed for half hour. I had to carry her back to home. Once inside, she opened her eyes, looked around——all sleep gone. “I want to go tata,” she said, “NOW!”

So here we are. One more memoir. Whenever I write a short-story, some or the other responds: “The stories are fine, but when you’ll write a memoir?”

At the bottom of this article there is a list of my past articles. The first one was published somewhere in 2007. So I have been doing this gig for some time now. Most writers would move on. Not me. My readers won’t allow. I am going to be a life-time memoir writer. A writer whose memoirs are more fictitious than true events.

Anyway, there’s a big difference between what I am writing now and what I wrote then. The current articles are less funny——of course. I wish I had not read so many books on writing. I was a better writer before reading them. I was writing whatever came to my mind——incoherent thoughts. Then someone said from a podium at a gathering: “Hey you. Not you. You! The one with less hair. Yes. The fat-guy. You should learn the craft.”

I got hooked. I probably have the world record for reading the most number of books on writing. But I still don’t get it.

Anyway, having a child at home helps me look at the world in a different way. All ‘art’ is looking things in a different angle. ‘Sun is sleeping,’ she says at night, looking out the window. I myself cannot imagine such things——even after writing for so many years. She amazes me.

All right then. No more beating around the bush. Let’s see if we can end this smoothly. I need your help. Here’s what we are gonna do: Finish this off with only short sentences. And, we’ll use present tense. For a change. Let’s italicize the text to note the change in tense. No other gimmicks. No big words. Wait a second. Let me stretch a bit. Are you ready? Okay. Here we go.

Epilogue

We are at a carnival. She is sitting on my shoulders——legs around my neck. She holds my head for balance. We roam around. Look at the colorful things: rides and food stalls.  Then suddenly I feel something cold on the back of my neck. I turn my head. Look up at her.

“Did you make su-su?”

“Yes,” she says.

Moments pass.

“By mistake,” she says.

                                                             ///////////////////////////////////////

Note: If you liked this one, you might like the other ones in the series. Click here for my other memoirs. 

This article was first published on www.daijiworld.com; click here for the original post. 

I’m just fine

“Since my birth, I have slept more than 10,000 times. But I have never dreamt of being able to fly like a bird.”

-Masa Nakamura, The Bird People in China

Prologue

I am teaching people-skills to my daughter.

“How are you?” I ask.

“Fine,” she replies.

“Very Good,” I am overjoyed. “Now you ask me: How are you?”

“Fine.”

“No. No. I will say fine. You ask: How are you?”

“Fine.”

“No. You don’t get it. Just say, How are you?”

“Fine.”

“How are you? How are you? H-O-W A-R-E Y-O-U?”

“Fine. Fine. Fine.”

“All right. Forget it. We’ll try it some other time.”

“Fine.”

What am I doing?

When you have children at home, time flies. They grow so fast. It seems only yesterday, when I wrote my first (pseudo) memoir, in which I had announced to the world that I won’t be writing any such stuff in future. And yet, I am back with one more. This time with more lies and interesting stuff that really didn’t happen in my life. But time and again, my kind readers have forgiven me, tolerated my articles, knowing certainly, not everything is black and white. Like me, they are addicted. We are in this together.

Now though, I have a reason. A goal. Something to look forward. I hope my daughter reads these memoirs sometime in the future. Of course, she would realize right away everything is made-up. Hopefully, she would mine out the truths among the lies. A small dose of philosophy right there for you.  

Anyway, I am writing a memoir after a long time. Again and again, I come back to memoirs because my short stories either confuse the readers, or the readers understand more than what I write! In my last story, Beautiful Miss Iyer, a small boy gets infatuated with his teacher. Many of my readers thought it was my own story! Such a preposterousness!  Apparently, they think I am incapable of inventing such fiction. In a sense, I am doomed, since my readers believe each and everything I write. In fact many writers crave such readership. James Frey wrote A Million Little Pieces——a memoir; but readers found out right away it was all made up. Was there really a Bengal tiger in the lifeboat, in Life of Pi? Or is it just an allegory? Even Shantaram, which moved us so much, is just fiction, not memoir! Once you are a writer you cannot write true memoirs! It’s a paradox.  

At this point, I re-read whatever I wrote from the top, and found nothing significant! But I have a feeling you will continue reading; although, I must warn you, the interesting stuff is over.

A shot at learning

My daughter is already doing things which I was not doing at that age. Along with other things, she knows the first 3 letters of the alphabet. But she writes the letter ‘A’ upside down. That’s because she was on the other side of the writing pad, when I taught her that. What a blunder! I don’t know how to correct this mistake. She recites the days of the week; but always starting from Monday. If you ask from any other day, she would start from Monday anyway in her mind. You can see the lip movement and when she reaches the said day, she would say it louder.

Unlike computers, children learn many things on their own. This is a big plus. You don’t need to teach each and every thing. Without previous knowledge, a child can easily relate a trunk to an elephant. But a computer cannot do that. However, with the aid of artificial intelligence, a computer can do some kind of deductive logic to come to the correct conclusion faster than human beings. Computers are faster and they don’t get tired. A word-processor can do the spell check instantly. And, it can check the grammatical correctness almost as we place the period. But speed is not everything. A computer can’t write a poem——that way we are unique.

Whenever she does something new, I ask myself, Is she supposed to do this at this age? Am I putting pressure on her? In other words, am I becoming like my parents: expecting greatness from children, though they themselves are regular folks!  I hope she doesn’t become another me: reaching the destination before time, while missing the journey.

I also have the peer pressure. Other kids here are learning ballet, karate, Taekwan-Do, piano and swimming. How many times in real life you get to use your Taekwan-Do skills? Or How many people really watch ballet nowadays? All these questions swarm me.

Some of the kids here are into everything. They have a busier schedule than the celebrities. I didn’t learn any of these things in my time——and, I am doing okay! (Well, I write at least; you don’t! how about that?) I don’t know Taekwan-Do, but I never ended up in a situation where I had to resort for martial arts. You don’t pick fight with a 6 foot, 200+ pounds, silver back, alpha-male apish person!

I remember vaguely, I had shown some interest in karate during my schooldays. Mother vetoed it out right away. “You are such a threat to your siblings already, if you master the dreaded art of killing, God save the mortals,” she said.

“I won’t harm anyone,” I had said. “I want to defend myself, if the situation calls for it!”

She sized me up, top to bottom. I was already a last bencher in the class. And, in the prayer lines of assembly, I was farthest from the stage. “Believe me,” she said, “no one in his right mind would ever pick a fight with you.”

In my schooldays I fought only twice. These fights were brutal and merciless; Often, held after the class in a remote corner of the playground. I won both the times. I was never a bully, but occasionally after seeing a super- hero movie, a kid would get delusional——Thinks it could do anything. On such occasions, I have helped the blighter to keep the facts straight. Being bigger than my challengers, I was a true Goliath. But the kids were not Davids. In my Mother’s words, they were simply out of their minds!

Child’s play

Every kid with some talent makes my wife nervous. She fears whether she missed out anything for her daughter.

“May I interest you in a cup of coffee?” a kid asked us one time, when we visited his parents. Once the kid vanished into the kitchen with our order, my wife nudged me: “Did you notice that?”

“…notice what?”

“Such fine mannerism! We should inculcate such things in our daughter.”

“Let me tell you about this kid,” I said. “He is a perfect kid. He will always talk nicely. He will make into top lists. A front runner. A torch bearer. He will be number one in local Taekwan-Do meets. He’ll marry the perfect woman of his parents’ choice, ditching his school time love. He’ll lead a top post in his father-in-law’s firm. He will attend the right meetings; Laugh at the right time—— even for old jokes. He won’t read, One Hundred Years of Solitude. And one day in his old age, searching for meaning, he will ponder, if only he had built sand-castles in the backyard, instead of entertaining strangers with phony coffee requests——”

My wife cut me off with a wave of hand. “It is interesting how you figured it all out just from a coffee request!”

I feel——and this is my opinion——kids should just indulge in kid-stuff. There is a lot of time later in life, to chase phony goals. With this philosophy, I have taught my daughter simple pleasure giving activities: blowing bubbles while drinking from a straw; biting ears of unsuspecting victims, when asked for a kiss; rapid tongue flashing and simultaneous blinking in front of guests; repeating every word with elders.  

No video-games for her so far. I don’t know how long I can restrain her from the evil-toys. I belong to the time, where most of the games where played outside on the playground. Children were expected to round-up on the playground in the evenings or weekends, for an hour or two. And sometimes a few scratches here and there were expected. Occasionally, a cricket ball, hit by a future Gavaskar, would smash the neighbor’s window followed by sudden calmness. Sometimes a mad dog or a lost cow would barge into the ground, disrupting the play momentarily. Such wonderful days.

Long back at a cricket game, our fast-bowlers noticed a patch of grass on the pitch causing hindrance. It was decided to burn out the obstacle. I don’t know who came up with this idea——certainly not me! But I must say, at that time it looked like a brilliant idea. I remember suggesting circling the offending patch with green-branches; just for emergency. No one listened to me. Most of the players were taking a break——stretched out at the boundary line. Once the fire started, it not only burnt down the whole ground in moments, but also invaded the neighboring fields. Many people came running with buckets of water or whatever handy to put off the fire. A few players vanished. To this day no one knows who all were involved in the original team who came up with this indigenous idea. But everyone relates this incident to me. Because I was the one who went to Cecile-bai’s house to get the matchbox.

“What? Started smoking already?” she had said.

“Nope! Not my thing. Just a small patch of grass on the pitch needs to be cleared out. Batsmen are complaining about bodyline bowling.”

“In this sun you’ll scorch half of the village!”

“Don’t worry about it. We got it all covered. And, if you are concerned about your precious matchbox, let me assure you, it’ll be returned in its pristine condition barring only a few matchsticks.”

When the fire started, one of the first fire-fighters to rush to the scene was Cecile-bai herself. She probably had a vision of the Armageddon; but she was a bit late.  After the fire was put off, I met her among the ruins at a safe distance.

“You probably don’t care for your matchbox any more,” I said.

Anyway, I met her many years later. She still has the fond memories of the events that followed.

Good old days. No more such things. All those games you can now play sitting on the couch! Even the overfed kids——who were one time umpires, scorers, and water boys——are now great couch players. What a world!

One such overfed kid beat me mercilessly in a tennis match, on Wii. In the real court, I could beat this kid with my left hand. But on the couch, I could not manage the hand-eye coordination. I got confused. I thought: why should I bother with this pseudo pleasure, when I can play the real game?

So far I have managed to keep my daughter away from all these virtual games. Her favorite game, now, is one with the grocery bag. In this game you throw the empty plastic grocery-bag up in the air and enjoy its lazy parachute-like fall. That’s it. The unpredictability of the bag’s trail is what amuses her. It’s a Zen experience, if you ask me.

It has come to my attention, while indulging myself with the pleasures of this game, that no 2 trails are similar! There are millions of possibilities. If you wait for infinite amount of time, in stable atmospheric conditions, maybe, there could be 2 similar trails. But till now, no one has reported such findings. I might come up with some kind of formula to explain this theory.

Only small children, Zen monks, and mystics can truly enjoy this game at length. Not being any of these, this game is turning out to be immensely painful.

Mangalore

Every time I come down to Mangalore, I find something new. The city is ever-changing. Greek philosopher Heraclites maintained that world is continuously changing and in a constant state of conflict. He illustrated this by his famous saying: “You can never step into the same river twice!” Can you believe that? Do you have to be a philosopher to notice this simple (stupid!) fact?

Often, these philosophers and scientists discover the very things regular folks have known for years. For example: the moving ball continues to move till it hits the wall and when it does that it changes its direction. Is there anything new here? Duck soup! But apparently that’s Newton’s first law.

Hey you guys——you make me stray from my article. Back to my point: No two times you find the city similar. You take a bus from Mangalore to Udupi (Use the seat belt, don’t sit near the driver, make sure your life insurance policy is still valid, keep small prayer booklets of major religions in your breast-pocket because you don’t know which God will save you when the time comes! God has already confused us Mangaloreans so much. Thank you God.), while in Udupi treat yourself with a delicious Udupi-breakfast on a plantain leaf, and take the return bus to Mangalore. Voila! It’s a different city. The city surprises you all the time.

This time after landing at Bajpe, I had some idle time before the conveyor belt started rolling. I took a quick visit to the restroom and noticed for the first time that the bowls of urinals were not reachable, though I am 6 foot tall! Looks like they are made for giants! I had to use the ones for the kids. I was not much far from the flight, from which I had alighted only a few minutes ago; within such a short time, the city had managed to show me something new. It never ceases to amuse me.

The dogs and the pigeons

At my wife’s home, there are many pigeons. They live in small boxes arranged in rows one above the other, in a small room. During the day they fly away or linger on the rooftop waiting for the feed.

After I scatter the birdfeed on the patio, they patiently wait for me to vacate the place. Only when I leave they flock. But when my daughter tries to feed them, they surround her immediately. They try to eat from her hand. She warns them in her language and tries to shoo them away. But the birds are reckless.

There are two dogs: one old and one young. The young one is unruly. It is leashed to a tree at a distance, where it constantly struggles for freedom. And, it is my fear what would happen if it unleashes.

The old one doesn’t have a leash. It loiters on the porch all the time. It is my daughter’s playmate. One time I saw her trying to feed the dog. She was dangling a biscuit in front of it. I watched this scene with horror from a distant. The dog though was kind. It had handled children in the past; hence, it was in a position to skillfully accept the food without alarming the child. Sometimes, she treats the dog like a pillow; she lies on the ground with her head on the dog’s belly. Now and then she pulls the dog by its tail. But nothing can disturb the tranquility of the Zen-dog.

In my home there is no Zen stuff. My mother is a super practical person. The pets have strict tasks and tight deadlines. They are not there for cuteness. Mom expects the dogs to vigil the house at nights, while the masters are asleep. Her dogs are ferocious, violent, mean, and wild. True low-life characters. In the day time, they are latched inside the doghouse. One time, my daughter tried to unlatch them. After this near fatal incident we use locks for the doghouse.

“Why the locks?” a guest had asked.

“The dogs are precious!”

This is a believable answer than the explanation behind the real reason.

Another time, she tried to lift the kitten with its tail; the kitten somersaulted and scratched her. This sudden event raised a hell cry.  A desperate hunt was launched to find the kitten. It has vanished. The little-cat is stupid to do something like that to its future master.

Spice less life

One time, just for kicks, I dipped my finger in tea and placed a drop on her tongue; this experiment backfired. She got addicted to tea. She stopped all the good stuff: milk, fruit-juice etc. At 11 AM and in the evening, she demands tea. We are forced to be creative here. The tea which she drinks is light-brown in color but, it’s actually milk. Mine is the real tea.

Once she determined to drink what her dada drinks, I had to watch my diet. I discarded the Coke and Soda cans from the fridge. In the early months, babies don’t mind whatever you eat. But later they develop a keen sense of observation. They want to try all the new stuff.

Often, it’s a pain to feed my daughter: so much begging and cajoling. And the threats: if you don’t eat the doll will eat to become stronger!  

Now that she eats regular food, we had to reduce the spice level. The food now is bland and tasteless! Sometimes I hide in the kitchen and take an occasional sip of coke or eat something spicy.

And, there are races to finish the food. I am supposed to give a tough competition. But I can’t win. So I eat with the right pace. I am right there behind her. When she finishes the food, I have a few morsels left on my plate.

Epilogue

In the who-will-sleep-sooner race, often, I am the winner! One night, when I woke up suddenly, I saw her staring at me, in the night-lamp. (Night lamps are a pain. I can’t sleep when they are on. For more than 3 decades I hated them; never used one——till the daughter was born. She can’t sleep without one. I wonder what more sacrifices are in store for me in future.)

I signaled her to close the eyes; mama won’t like her awake this late. She did the same sign to me. And she whispered something. I have difficulties understanding her regular talk, much less whispering.

“What?” I asked.

She whispered something more, which could only mean, how could you not understand such a simple thing.

I gave up.

“Say it loudly,” I said.

“How are you?” she said.

That was fantastic. I struggled for words. Words fail me when I need them the most. I usually end up saying something plain and insignificant. “Well…,” I said, “I guess I am just fine.”

                     -------------------------

Note: The article was earlier published on www.daijiworld.com. Click here to see it on daiji. 

Parenthood and some other things…

This entry is a part of the contest at BlogAdda.com in association with imlee.com

Prologue: an untold incident from the past

When I was in engineering, one day, a classmate climbed the high-wall of the ladies hostel. From there, he climbed up a water pipe to the third floor——to fetch the undergarments of one of the most beautiful ladies of that time. The stories of this incident spread like wild fire and, became more and more colorful as time passed by. When I heard this, I went berserk, pulled my hair and, banged my head——for not doing this ingenious feat myself.

Later, in a secret auction, held in a remote corner of the boys’ hostel in the wee hours, the coveted possession was bid for an outrageous price.

This was long back. Years have passed. Much water has flowed under the bridges. Governments have fallen. Sometimes, in the evenings, I sit in the easy-chair on the porch, and remunerate the old-event. I wonder, why would someone risk his life to fetch something that had no use for him whatsoever? But if you think about it, it’s not a bizarre incident. Something like this should be expected from all men. Historically, you might have noticed, men have done notoriously foolish things, apparently for no particular gain.

I am a different person, now. Over the period my values have changed. Things that once took my fancy, no more fascinate me. May be I am becoming old before my time. I no more wear an ear-ring, no tattoo, no torn jeans, no piercing, and in the last few years I have skipped Mardi-Gras. Now, mostly I go for formals, prefer ties, avoid jeans, and wear long sleeves to hide needle marks. I am erasing my past, mainly because, now I have a year old daughter. God forbid, years from now, in her teens, she won’t come across a person like me.

The reality: Baby is here.

In my case, parenting was an accident. We planned everything meticulously, nothing worked, and finally when we lost hope, God gave us a baby. Hence, a beautiful surprise. It was opposite in my parents’ case. They opted for family-planning, failed miserably, and I was born. Hence, a terrible nightmare! I was born almost immediately after my parents’ wedding; some skeptics had concluded, perhaps I was the reason for their hurried nuptials! This is not true: highly preposterous. Where do people get such ideas? My parents are just regular folks, very religious. They wouldn’t dream such a thing or——wait a minute, now that I think about it——Oh my God! Did I just stumble on a family secret? A secret buried for more than 30 years. The world is going to the dogs! Nowadays, you can’t even trust your parents!

My wife and I took some time to digest the fact that we were parents. After delivery, from the hospital, we went straight home; placed the baby on the bed. My wife looked at me. I looked at her. We looked at each other. (Did you notice I just used 3 sentences, instead of one, to convey a single fact? I guess, I will always remain an amateur.)

“Oh my God,” I said, “This baby is real. And it is going to stay for times to come.”

Then it hit me that I have become a parent. Some days, I was woken up in the early hours by baby-cries, shouted obscenities at the neighbors, only to realize that it was my baby. Life won’t be same anymore. Many things were going to change: no more movie theatres, no more quiet candle-light dinners, and no more late night parties.

Transitioning to parenthood

My parents had three children. To me, they always looked composed. They glided through parenting, smoothly. I have one child, and so far, at least 3 times, I have thought of running away from home!

When my wife was pregnant, we begged God——for twins. When we realized, that there won’t be twins, I felt dejected. “God!” I said, “One simple thing I asked you in so many years. But you won’t oblige me.”

Now, after having a baby for a year, I told God, “Thank you God, for not listening to my prayer!” From this I have learned that God’s plans are better than ours——he is a better Project Manager!

Baby taught us many things: Importance of sleep. The value of this simple pleasure——that I had taken for granted——I realized only when I was deprived of it.

Either I or my wife needs to sleep whenever the baby sleeps, because when she wakes up, someone should hold her. She sleeps clutching my hand, tightly. This gives her a comfort feeling; however, I can not sleep, if someone holds my hand. This reverse requirement has cost me many sleepless nights. Life has become baby-centric (In the past it was Mom-centric, wife-centric, and boss-centric. I was never the center of my own life.)

A few weeks ago, I found myself eating food in the wee hours.

“What time is it?” I asked my wife.

“2 in the morning.”

“Which year?”

“What?”

The room was revolving with a great speed. The fan was stable.

“Which year?” I repeated.

“Does it really matter?”

“It is fine if you don’t know the answer,” I said, “I guess, one is not expected to answer all the questions.”

“Are you out of your mind?”

“Does it really matter?”

“What are you saying?”

“Why am I eating at this hour?” I asked.

“…we slept with the baby; she is up now.”

“Baby? What baby?”

I guess I was losing my mind.

In spite of several warnings from friends and dear ones, we used to hold the baby all the time. Now she is used to it, can’t put her down, even for seconds. Right now, I am typing with one hand. In the other hand I have the baby——I have become ambidextrous. I can type with right or left hand depending on where the baby is. I am going to demonstrate this on YouTube soon. You will believe me then.

Before the baby, I had so much free time; I was contemplating on writing a novel. I had a great plot. A young man, frustrated by family and relatives migrates to a distant country. There he meets a girl and marries her. Time flies. But this man has an immense desire to tell his story to the world. He wants to write a book. He is all set, but then the baby arrives and the dream is shattered! Intelligent readers would notice that this is my own story!

I can only write what happens in my life. My luck! (In this regard I am like Maugham.)I cannot write true fiction. I tried though. I wrote a few short stories (I know you haven’t read them); a few kind readers, who read my stories, were traumatized. My stories build-up tension till the end, but once you are there, nothing happens. They just end abruptly. This has caused frustration among many readers. Several readers have warned Daiji to stop publishing my stories, or they will go somewhere else. One person has committed suicide. His last note said: “Though, in my heart, I knew this is a mediocre world, I had some hope. But after reading Mr. Lobo’s short stories…”

Did you notice the abrupt ending? The victim didn’t even bother to complete the sentence! Such is the effect of my stories!

The India trip

Being born in the US, my daughter is a citizen. She can visit about 150 countries without a Visa: except, India! Just my luck.

On the other hand, being an Indian citizen, without a visa I get to visit only one country in the whole word: Nepal. Which is not bad—— Nepal is a beautiful country. If the chaos in Mangalore increases, I might just go to Nepal and settle down there. End of the day, I am more interested in leading a peaceful life than to find out which one of our Gods are stronger! Expecting a peaceful life has become a luxury!

At Mangalore airport, the moment I got off the plane, my phone rang. Only one person could have called me precisely at that time: Mother. All mothers have this instinct about their children. They can sense their child in the vicinity. This is a motherly thing. I can’t really explain it. God being “God”, with his tight schedule, created mothers——to delegate some of his responsibilities.

I was meeting Mom after 2 years; so many emotions; so many stories to tell. My eyes welled up; lips quivered.

“Hello Mom”

“Sir!” said the voice, “ICICI welcomes you to Mangalore.”

Apparently it was my NRI bank. They had some “ingenious” scheme, created having only myself in mind——so kind of them.

“I just landed,” I said.

“What better time than Now sir? Gandhiji had said——”

“Let’s not drag Gandhiji into this——”

[During the course of my vacation, I got several calls from the same person——for they had created several schemes, keeping only me in mind. My vacation almost got screwed. I am so tempted to mention the name of the person.]

When my mother saw me at the gate, she was surprised.

“I thought you were coming tomorrow.” So much for the motherly instinct!

“Even the bank people have my correct itinerary,” I said.

The dog at the gate started barking. My daughter cried in alarm. She had never seen a barking dog. In America dogs don’t bark. Their mere purpose: aesthetic.

I had not seen the dog before.

“Why do you entertain stranger’s dog on our property?”

“It is not a stray dog.” Mom said.

“Then?”

“It is our dog.”

“Why it is barking at me?”

“It thinks you are a stranger!”

The dog was stupid, because it was barking at me——its owner! Though I said, I am the owner, eventually my younger brother will get everything——he being the favorite. I will get Grandpa’s ancient book-shelf. One time, in a literary fervor, I had announced that the shelf is the most important thing in my life——Mom took that literally.

In Mangalore, I became busier. Sometimes I attended three weddings in a day. And sometimes, the schedule was so tight, I attended one wedding, my wife attended another and the baby third one. Everyone wants to marry in December and wages a life long grudge if you miss the wedding. Thankfully, I didn’t have to visit any friends——all my friends are on FaceBook. I have about 27000 friends. Most of them don’t even know me. Many don’t have a clue, whether I am a man or a woman or an android. They don’t care if I am 16, 46 or 256. But they want to do farming with me. They send Farmville requests. I would rather go to our fields and do some real ground work.

Accidentally, I met my ex-girlfriend at Citi-Center. We carefully avoided the past, and discussed unrelated things: New York Stock Exchange rates, rainfall in Peru, alchemism, and global warming.

“I have made many mistakes in life,” she said, eventually.

I gasped. Time froze. For a moment birds stopped in mid air; everything went black and white——someone mistakenly had turned the color knob to minimum; barking dogs lost their voices; American radars monitoring North Korean borders malfunctioned for a few seconds.

My heart——that ticks 72 times per minute——skipped a few precious beats. Oh! God! Am I going to be another Humbert Humbert? Vronsky? Mellors?

“I have made many mistakes,” she continued, “but rejecting you is the only right thing I did in my life!”

Birds continued their flight; dogs found their voices; color got restored; Heart beat resumed steadily. All is well.

Tips for future parents

Now, whenever we go out with the baby, we take a big bag with baby stuff. The first time when we went to the hospital, we just took the baby. We had just changed the diapers and the hospital was near by, so we decided against taking the extra luggage, for a half hour outing.

In the hospital, there was this big million-dollar ultra-sensitive machine to check the baby weight.

I was about to place the baby on the machine, the nurse said: “No! No! No! Remove her clothes first.”

So I placed the baby, only with the diaper.

“Remove the diaper too”

“This may not be a good idea!” I said.

“Just do it!”

“I have a better solution.”

“What is it?”

“Weigh the baby with the diaper. Then weigh a fresh diaper. Subtract the weights. Take an absolute. The resultant is the point-in-time weight of the baby!”

“Are you an engineer?”

Shocked! “How did you guess?”

“Because you just gave me a perfect solution that is totally useless to me!”

With that she snatched the baby, removed her diapers and placed her on the machine. And the baby did what was forecasted. My point: Never hold a baby without a diaper, especially in public places. Don’t try it, however confident you are.

At this point of my article, I am supposed to give some tips, for future parents. Parenting is great­­­­——but marry first! (One of these days, I am going to be in deep trouble for my liberal thoughts! You know, how touchy we Mangaloreans are about Culture and Heritage!)

New parents are suckers for tips; they would go to any length to get the tiniest bit of information. The best thing about being a parent is that now you can give advice to future parents.

Remember there are no bad children, only bad parents. (I hope, someone would tell this thing to my parents.) The things you have been postponing to do after the baby, do them now. After the baby you won’t find time.

If you are pregnant right now, you should not read this article. I would highly encourage you to read better literature. You don’t want a child with mediocre literary taste. When pregnant, eat to your heart’s content; people will think the extra weight is because of the baby. With higher buoyancy, this is the right time to learn swimming. Watch movies, read books, take prenatals, no weight lifting, avoid flights, avoid seafood, exercise, walk, sleep, paint your tummy, talk to the baby, no smoking, no alcohol, no caffeine, and no sex——oops! All right, once a week!

There will be people ready to obey orders, exploit them. Once you are in the last trimester, don’t stray far from the hospital. Visit the delivery room in advance, don’t look for it at the last moment. Go for epidural, it’s worth it! Don’t worry about the back pain——it’s a myth.

Like all mammals (including platypus and echidna) nursing is the best thing for newborns! Go for it! No second thoughts! You can count on me on this one. Apparently some of you want to become Models. Nothing wrong with that. Or may be, it is better to be models for your children than to do a ramp walk for strangers! Oh my god! Did I just say something taboo? I have an eerie feeling that I just lost some of my fairer fans. I have dug my grave.

The great expectations

My parents are simple people; Father used to be 10^th in the class, Mother stood 15^th——there were 15 students in her class! These two seemingly simple folks expected me to be number one in virtually everything!

As a child, I started talking quite late; one could see my lips moving, framing sentences in my mind, before actually uttering them. Einstein had the same problem. My parents misinterpreted these signs. Thought the successor to Einstein was born in their house——nothing is more preposterous! Einstein was working on The Unified Theory at the end of his life, which he could not prove. My parents thought, I would resume his work. Such was their expectation.

I begged them. “Com’on guys, please be practical,” I said, “How can I become a super-achiever when the two of you are just plain?”

Mom said: “Einstein’s parents were not scientists!”

I replied: “Einstein’s children were not scientists either!”

That caused more confusion.

With all these expectations, I used to manage a second rank in the class. The first rank holder was a divinely gifted genius: A Tendulkar. Where as I was a look alike: A Sehwag. I had some shining but I was nowhere near number one. My mom was immensely sad about my second rank.

She couldn’t have been sadder, had I been the last rank holder in the class. Secretly she coveted a son like the first rank holder. But the Gods had cheated her, and blessed her with a son destined to be number 2 in everything he tried! A second rater! A fake!

All my life, I had been second to someone superior. I am the person whom the photographers push aside, to get a clear picture of someone prominent. Being second is a fate worse than losing. How many people know the second highest mountain in the world? or the second fastest man on the planet? or the second longest river? How many people know Buzz Aldrin? No one remembers a second position.

With these experiences, I don’t have any expectations from my daughter. I hope, she realizes the uselessness of the rat-races early in life. I have either become a mystic or set my goals too low——probably, the latter one.

On retrospection, I feel, I haven’t done that bad. In fact I am doing better than some of the number one people of my student life. On the other hand a few last benchers have become millionaires. Not being number one (in anything!) doesn’t bother me much, now. I guess, some people are chosen only to clap hands. We all have roles to play. Probably this is what Milton meant in his quote: “They also serve who only stand and wait.”

Epilogue: A Happy man

I was holding my daughter so far; just now I placed her on my desk. I can see her from the corner of my eyes. In a few days she will babble her first words. She is making the efforts. I can see her lips moving, She is formulating the words in her mind. Like me, she is a trifle slow in her responses. Her unruly hair, permanently disheveled, gives her the look of a scientist. Oh! My God! Are these some kinds of signs?