Someone said once that one should enjoy the journey as much as one does the destination. I would have made this philosopher very happy had she seen me thoroughly enjoying my daily drive to school with three bubbly little girls – my daughter Aditi and her friends Gayatri and Scarlett. I suppose they also enjoyed the journey as much as I did, though I have no doubt they immensely enjoyed the destination too. More about that – the destination, I mean – at the end of this story!
I considered myself to be very lucky to start the day this way. The girls occupied the back-seat of the car and that considerably weakened my physical control on them when they got into arguments that sometimes escalated to open war.
“You are an A,” once said Gayatri to Scarlett. This wasn’t really a great accusation, but the tone did indicate that Gayatri was spoiling for a fight. Scarlett turned this over in her mind for a moment and decided that this was a barb that couldn’t be ignored. Stung, her neat but unoriginal repartee was, “Then you are a B.” “And Aditi is a C,” said Gayatri rather illogically, dragging a reluctant Aditi too into the fight. We saw this kind of a thing a lot during both the World Wars. After having traded such serious insults, they all burst into tears. “Ladies, ladies, ladies,” I said. “Would you mind maintaining some silence in the car, please? Please? Thank you. Thank you very much.”
While the wailing and tears continued, I perplexedly thought about why anyone should feel offended at being called A, B, C, or any other alphabet for that matter. Churchill, Hitler and Roosevelt, to name a few, were often called things that cannot be printed here and they put up with all that with equanimity, though one doesn’t know how they would have reacted had they too been called A, B and C. I’m sure it is worthwhile for historians to find out.
To come back to the present world, my skills in managing car-wars grew rapidly and after a few days, I put an end to all martial activities by encouraging them to sing songs, play guessing games and tell stories to each other. There were times when we used to just talk about things they learnt in school, which showed them more and more how much I hadn’t learnt in mine. To them, I was a person who was harmless and occasionally funny and entertaining, but one who didn’t know much about anything.
My ignorance, which used to be much more apparent when we talked of school, used to surprise them. I didn’t know who was so-and-so’s best friend and who wasn’t, who played the tabla and who didn’t, who cried in class last week and why, which team won which match in their football league matches – I could go on and on with this list. My limited knowledge of the names of other children in their school used to particularly amaze them.
“You know, yesterday Aditya said to me …,” said Scarlett.
“Who is Aditya?” I asked with polite curiosity.
“You don’t know Aditya? He doesn’t know Aditya!” Gayatri said, shocked, and they all looked at each other with open wonder. This wonder-boy Aditya apparently was in the same league as George Bush and the Pope, and I was a complete dolt not to have heard about him.
Aditi gave me a gentle, pitying look and an apologetic one to her friends. Filial loyalty and pride have never been the strongest of her many virtues, but she is kind enough to me not to hurt my feelings. “My father doesn’t know anything,” she whispered to her friends, and continued to expound on my other deficiencies, on which she is a recognized authority. Well, she thought she was whispering, but soon I found bystanders lining the street looking rather too interestedly for my comfort at this ignoramus in the driver’s seat. Even a solitary cow quietly cropping grass by the roadside gave me an indignant look. Having observed cows since my childhood, I had always thought that this animal’s primary interest in life was to convert grass to calories with single-minded devotion, but for a moment her interest in my curriculum vitae seemed to take precedence. (By the way, I eventually had the privilege of making Aditya’s acquaintance. I looked at him with awe and reverently shook his hand, but he just gave me a cheeky grin and ran off. He didn’t seem like he could walk on water, but I admit I could be wrong).
As the days flew by, my reputation went from bad to worse. I tried to take the edge off my ignorance by reading about all the things they talked of – the Big Bang theory, the origin of life on earth, the poems and songs they learnt in school, and the stories they were told. In fact, I went as far as to read up whatever I could about the current economic crisis and explained it to them. I talked eloquently of sub-prime loans, credit histories, the housing bubble, mortgage-backed securities, and the negative effect of relaxed regulations. I even illustrated cash flows between lenders, borrowers and banks on my dusty windshield to show off my knowledge. They coldly ignored me – they had developed this disconcerting habit of looking through me. I simply failed to impress.
I knew I had to work harder at this. I continued my scholarly pursuit of children’s songs, poems and stories and came across a curious fact: most of them featured animals and the most prominently featured creature was the monkey! After thinking about this for some time, I didn’t really find it very surprising. Children, when they see me, use my arms as swings and climb on to my shoulders. When they come across a sofa in the living room, they climb over it to get to the other side – they don’t go around it like you and I do. They like bananas and they chatter along endlessly. This was useful information – just that chink in the girls’ armour that I was looking for!
I put together a plan and was ready for battle the next day. As usual, the girls clambered into the car and started chattering about this and that. They completely ignored me. I took a deep breath – this was do or die – and said gently but firmly, “All children under the age of 10 are monkeys.” Attack, they say, is the best kind of defence.
There was a moment’s stunned silence and I knew I had caught their attention finally. It was their turn to attack now and I knew it wouldn’t be without rancour.
“No, no!”
“That’s not right. Impossible!”
“You can’t prove it.”
I was ready for this as it was easy to anticipate such a reaction. “There’s a book in my office in which it is clearly written that anyone younger than 10 years is a monkey. I can show you that book.”
“That’s not possible. There can be no such book!”
“He is joking.”
“I know what you will do. You will type this on your computer, print it, and then put it in a book. You can’t fool us.”
All I can say about computer literacy at an early age is that it has its downsides. I admit I had not anticipated exactly this reaction, but I had not anyway expected this salvo to be the winning one. It was time to unleash my final weapon. I mustered all the nonchalance I could and fired.
“Well, I knew you wouldn’t believe me, but I can prove it to you. We will reach school in a few minutes. Let’s ask Aunty Naaz what she has to say about this. I’m sure she will agree with me.”
The results were much more dramatic than expected. The indignant chatter suddenly died down as if a group of monkeys had suddenly realized that it was silent time. The sun went behind the clouds that were hanging around just for this occasion. The traffic stopped (now that’s the usual state of traffic in Koramangala, but this time it really, really stopped). Cars ceased to honk (now that’s unusual) and the more-than-curious bystanders who pleasurably soaked in stories of my limitations froze in their tracks. The cow stopped storing calories.
A casual glance at my rear-view mirror showed me three pairs of large, apprehensive eyes exchanging anxious glances with each other. I could read their minds as easily as I could have read the writing on the wall. What if Aunty Naaz agrees? Now she can’t be wrong – she is never wrong. This man here may babble about monkeys and mortgage-backed securities till he is blue in the face and we can safely ignore him, but not Aunty Naaz. We are just 6 years old now – do we need to wait for – oh, my God – four years to come out of monkey-hood? The silence in the car continued. Well, not exactly – I was desperately trying to hold back my laughter and my ribs were excusably squeaking.
We finally reached school and a subdued crew got down. I had to look just once at their careworn faces before I melted. I couldn’t do this to them any more. I pulled them all together and said, “Who says you are all monkeys? I was just pulling your leg. I’m sure Aunty Naaz doesn’t think you are monkeys – just the other day she told me you were all pretty little princesses that looked like fairies and behaved like angels! Don’t worry, we won’t say any of this to her. Now run along or you’ll be late for school.”
The sun started shining again and the traffic started moving – as much as it could, of course. The people who had stopped honking, bless them, started doing it vigourously as if trying to make up for lost time. The curious bystanders, now humbled, looked at me with new respect. The cow went back to watching her figure. Most importantly, the girls’ faces broke into relieved smiles – a lovely sight!
Then, three little monkeys scampered off to that warm, gentle, unique welcome that only their Aunty Naaz could give! That was the destination – I enjoyed the journey as well as the destination – a destination that our children enjoy and look forward to every day!
P.S:Aunty Naaz in the story is the school principal – she is a lovely person. All the children love and respect her and so do we. She has this unique practice of greeting each child when she or he enters the school, though we are all at a loss to understand how she can remember the names of all those monkeys.
“The author is just an ordinary father who loves children and is at complete ease when he is with them. A word of appreciation from a child makes him more proud than any accolade he could receive elsewhere.”
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