We were driving back home after dropping our yet-to-turn-eighteen son at the paying guest accommodation. His mother’s eyes were moist and she couldn’t blink it dry. The stubborn lump in her throat just wouldn’t dissolve, it appeared.
Starting a few days after joining college, he had petitioned, argued and insisted that he had to join a ‘PG’ close to college since the daily commute between home and college would come in the way of his day-to-day academic tussles and extra-curricular joys.
Initially she had ignored it as she does best when faced with such hints. After all, it was coming from her ladla who was being kidnapped by an idea and he was sure to return on his own once he realised there was no real rationale in it. Time, usually twenty-four hours, cured such itches. But not this time. It kept reappearing at dinner-time and breakfast-time, and by the third day it tasted like leftover steak refrigerated and microwaved over and over again.
She realised that denial, active or passive, wouldn’t work anymore. She rummaged through her quiver of responses and picked up anger and unleashed her full parental fury. With a trembling voice and with poor grammar, she told him he was being reckless and adamant That he did not have the grit to face even the least of hassles. That she had cycled five and a half kilometres to college every single day. That he did not know the value of money. She fired away hoping that at least some of the arrows would hit the target
Normally such open declarations of war would result in him throwing as many words back at her and then one of them quitting the battlefield hoping to live to fight another day. The silence and ceasefire that followed would last a couple of days, and by then only the guilt of the strong words that had been uttered would remain. The issue itself would be dead.
But this time round, that wasn’t to be. The issue rose again at the weekend and our son who came up with it was a new incarnation of himself. He was no longer indignant. He spoke with a forgiving voice, which also meant that she was the wrong one. He sat his mother down and explained that he had extra classes thrice a week, daily assignments to submit and cultural activities for extra credits. Doing justice to all of it was impossible with the three-hour commute daily. He assured her that he was willing to go with twin-sharing non-air-conditioned accommodation, which wouldn’t cost much. And he would be home every weekend.
She wrestled his logic with some of her own. “I will pick and drop you so you don’t have to take the crowded bus,” she offered. Seemingly he didn’t mind the jostling in the bus as much as the study time lost. The poor-in-protein PG food was a small sacrifice he was willing to make for his healthy future. He promised to wake up to his alarm, brush his teeth twice and press his own clothes. He vowed to be everything she wished him to be at home, away from home.
Clearly, she was beaten in that round too. The only thing left to do was to delay the eventuality. At dinner one evening she said, “How about this? You get good grades in the first semester and take PG in the second as a reward to yourself.” He glared at her silently as if to give her time to realise the absurdity of the idea, and then proceeded to clarify: “The whole idea of shifting is to save time to study better. How can I do well if I am wasting time travelling between traffic jams?” Her surrender was imminent.
He opened a small window and let some light in. “How about I go to PG this semester and prove to you that it works? If my grades turn out rotten, you can pull me out of it for the next semester.” It at once sounded like a happy disclaimer but later left her wondering what to pray for.
Unlike in boxing, knockouts don’t end a mother-child bout. The fallen one could raise again hours after the count of ten and call foul for the emotional pain inflicted. “But how could you be so insensitive?” she appealed the next day. “It’s not always about you. Your sister will feel so lonely. Who will walk the dog? Aren’t you sad for me? I will miss you terribly!” Slowly, words became sobs. Annoyance became fear. Guns became roses.
Our beta was bad at handling emotion. He muttered something incoherently, went silent and looked away, but later came up with some lines which sounded almost like the country was at war and that duty was calling him to the border. Many more hours went by in the tug-of-war between affection and duty before our son tugged hard at the rope and fell back victorious. They hugged each other and declared the war was over. Our son got his gate pass to leave home.
Next morning before seven he was up, dressed and ready. Ready to depart with bag and baggage, headphones and ‘A New Earth’, electric tooth brush and dumb-bells. The drive to his accommodation was five songs and many radio jingles long. Finally at the PG premises, she held him close and long before gently pushing him away.
Parents chauffer their kids around, buy out their temptations and refrain from burdening them with chores, then fear and nag that their children aren’t smart enough and wise enough to play the street. But come the defining moment, given the need and the freedom, they take to the task like fish to water. They do it with relish and relief. He smiled, waved and ran up the stairs as if he already belonged there. He no longer needed her to make his bed, cook meals and tell him what not to wear. She was out of her job.
She got into the car, shrunk into the front seat and buckled herself with leftover disbelief, resumed grief and newfound pride. Pride in her boy who had turned adult on the 25km drive. Her eyes were moist and the lump in her throat wouldn’t go. But her heart swelled.
Me, I was grumbling. The manager at the PG would not accept payment by card and wanted only cash. I had lectured him about the country going digital, the ill-effects of a cash economy and Prime Minister Modi’s achhe din. He shut me up with GST and I had to scurry towards an ATM. In the chaos I had lost the flourish in my departing speech to my son. So I was too angry to notice anything else.
ramannair28@yahoo.com