I'm an only child.Growing up, I was the only 'only child' in my parents' large social circle. It was pretty much the same even in school and college. All my friends had siblings. I wasn't the archetypal 'spoilt brat' and I'd see pleasantly surprised looks whenever I'd announce that I was an only child.Even if I say so myself, I think I was fairly well brought-up.
In the strictest middle class sense, my folks were quite liberal. When I looked around, I was always glad that I'd had them for parents. Some of my friends openly envied me for it. My father was one of those gifted people who could find a connect with almost anyone, cutting across age barriers. I'd have friends drop in home even when I wasn't around and spend time with him discussing matters of politics, religion, relationships or even general assorted nonsense. My mother is in-arguably the finest hostess there ever has been. I've had friends wake up from their sleep, dreaming of the crisp, thin dosas that she'd whip up when they'd come by. Her Advent/Lent-breaking breakfasts of Appams and 'kozhi mappas' are the stuff legends are made of. I'd always wanted my dream woman to be as gracious a host as my mother.
The transition from being just a son to by father, to being a friend of his happened rather smoothly. I don't even know at what point in time it happened. We'd always talk a lot. Bedside stories and Aesop's Fables gave way to Long John Silver, Robinson Crusoe, which in turn moved onto Tolstoy and Dostoevsky, Nehru, Patel and Indira Gandhi, Christianity, atheism and other religions. Relationships were a recurring a theme right through - with his mother, his brothers, his friends, my mother, her parents, her brothers. He'd always re-iterate the roles that each of them have played in being the person that he'd turned out to be.
We spoke a lot. About a lot of things.
My mother watched me grow up with emotions that ranged from elation that I was a bright kid in school, which turned to huge angst when it seemed that I'd drift away while in college, and gave way to pride when I landed a great sounding job in a great sounding place, got married to a girl they chose who had a great sounding job in a great sounding place herself.
It turned to distress when she figured there wouldn't be kids for us.
Through all this, my father continued to be a rock. In a quaint reversal of roles, he was the go-between with my mother and myself. He passed away in 2009. I was 37, and it was the first real sadness that I have ever experienced - a kind of sadness when everything around me turned black. It lasted for a month or so. It came back every once in a while for the next year or two, and lasted for a couple of hours when it did.
What was more sad was that I felt a gradual drifting away from my mother, and couldn't initially fathom why. I'd continued to do do everything a good, responsible son had to do;I set aside time for home - groceries, doing the bank work, taking her to her friends' and our relatives' homes, encouraged her to travel - she spent 6 months in the United States and around a couple of months in Singapore in addition to hopping over to Kerala at least once every 3 months.
My wife and I not having a child has been a huge bone of contention. My taking off to pursue my interests - theatre, singing, diving, et al interfere with a few things like regular church-going, hob-nobbing with relatives and such-like. All these, to her, seem to be indications that I've been drifting away. She sees everything in black and white; there are no greys.
It was at the break of the New Year of 2012 that I had an epiphany. Sitting on the Unnawatuna beach in Sri Lanka,it occurred to me that kids see things in black and white too. They don't have a sense of grey, do they?
Could it be possible that the roles could now be reversed and my mother is now the equivalent of a child? She's obviously missing that rock in her life - does she think I'm capable of filling my father's huge shoes? Maybe that's what she seeks, but do I even know what she's looking for?
I realised that I'd only been ticking away little boxes. Boxes which convention says we must do when we deal with our parents when they grow up. How much of soul was I putting into it?
How would I be with my little girl if I ever had one?
I'd spend a lot of time with her doing simple things - I'd take her with me when I do my weekend grocery shopping. I wouldn't leave her behind when we go for a movie. When invited by a close friend for dinner, I'd take her along instead of leaving her behind. When we plan a vacation, I'd work out a place which she would enjoy rather than tagging her along to a place that we want to go to.
I'd have to show her that I have her on my mind at all times, not just when I went about helping her with her chores.
The relief I felt when this struck me was immeasurable. My dream woman had just become my little girl.
In the strictest middle class sense, my folks were quite liberal. When I looked around, I was always glad that I'd had them for parents. Some of my friends openly envied me for it. My father was one of those gifted people who could find a connect with almost anyone, cutting across age barriers. I'd have friends drop in home even when I wasn't around and spend time with him discussing matters of politics, religion, relationships or even general assorted nonsense. My mother is in-arguably the finest hostess there ever has been. I've had friends wake up from their sleep, dreaming of the crisp, thin dosas that she'd whip up when they'd come by. Her Advent/Lent-breaking breakfasts of Appams and 'kozhi mappas' are the stuff legends are made of. I'd always wanted my dream woman to be as gracious a host as my mother.
The transition from being just a son to by father, to being a friend of his happened rather smoothly. I don't even know at what point in time it happened. We'd always talk a lot. Bedside stories and Aesop's Fables gave way to Long John Silver, Robinson Crusoe, which in turn moved onto Tolstoy and Dostoevsky, Nehru, Patel and Indira Gandhi, Christianity, atheism and other religions. Relationships were a recurring a theme right through - with his mother, his brothers, his friends, my mother, her parents, her brothers. He'd always re-iterate the roles that each of them have played in being the person that he'd turned out to be.
We spoke a lot. About a lot of things.
My mother watched me grow up with emotions that ranged from elation that I was a bright kid in school, which turned to huge angst when it seemed that I'd drift away while in college, and gave way to pride when I landed a great sounding job in a great sounding place, got married to a girl they chose who had a great sounding job in a great sounding place herself.
It turned to distress when she figured there wouldn't be kids for us.
Through all this, my father continued to be a rock. In a quaint reversal of roles, he was the go-between with my mother and myself. He passed away in 2009. I was 37, and it was the first real sadness that I have ever experienced - a kind of sadness when everything around me turned black. It lasted for a month or so. It came back every once in a while for the next year or two, and lasted for a couple of hours when it did.
What was more sad was that I felt a gradual drifting away from my mother, and couldn't initially fathom why. I'd continued to do do everything a good, responsible son had to do;I set aside time for home - groceries, doing the bank work, taking her to her friends' and our relatives' homes, encouraged her to travel - she spent 6 months in the United States and around a couple of months in Singapore in addition to hopping over to Kerala at least once every 3 months.
My wife and I not having a child has been a huge bone of contention. My taking off to pursue my interests - theatre, singing, diving, et al interfere with a few things like regular church-going, hob-nobbing with relatives and such-like. All these, to her, seem to be indications that I've been drifting away. She sees everything in black and white; there are no greys.
It was at the break of the New Year of 2012 that I had an epiphany. Sitting on the Unnawatuna beach in Sri Lanka,it occurred to me that kids see things in black and white too. They don't have a sense of grey, do they?
Could it be possible that the roles could now be reversed and my mother is now the equivalent of a child? She's obviously missing that rock in her life - does she think I'm capable of filling my father's huge shoes? Maybe that's what she seeks, but do I even know what she's looking for?
I realised that I'd only been ticking away little boxes. Boxes which convention says we must do when we deal with our parents when they grow up. How much of soul was I putting into it?
How would I be with my little girl if I ever had one?
I'd spend a lot of time with her doing simple things - I'd take her with me when I do my weekend grocery shopping. I wouldn't leave her behind when we go for a movie. When invited by a close friend for dinner, I'd take her along instead of leaving her behind. When we plan a vacation, I'd work out a place which she would enjoy rather than tagging her along to a place that we want to go to.
I'd have to show her that I have her on my mind at all times, not just when I went about helping her with her chores.
The relief I felt when this struck me was immeasurable. My dream woman had just become my little girl.
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