Tales of India ...3

Over the years, one of the aspects I have pondered a lot about, is parenting. Our daughter is in her late teens, and we had the complete pleasure of seeing her grow up, her words, the turn in her vocabulary, her art interests now evolving into a structured pursuit of Architecture. She also, like most infants, had the most epiphanic of statements and would often say something funny yet incredibly insightful. I took a lot of pride in writing down some of these experiences for the future. But I digress, as today, I wanted to share an experience of a parenting conversation someone shared, and it stayed with me.

Banking industry has always been an area of interest of interest and I have done some very interesting and marquee work in the sector, which had given me pleasure and immense learning. With banks, the travel has been a wee-bit easier, because of they having offices in cities and our battleground was often the structured well coiffured and appointed board rooms. So, at the beginning of some leadership work with one of these clients, we were invited to have breakfast with the senior team in the hotel where we were put up.

As I walked into the room with a few familiar faces and more unfamiliar, I gave acknowledging smiles to those who looked familiar and a nod of acknowledgement to the new faces. As I settled in a corner, and then walked towards the spread of a buffet, a young man accosted me and asked ‘ Can I get a bowl of sambhar?’. While I was perplexed for a split second, I quickly noticed that some of white-collar hotel staff were wearing the same color blazer as the suit I was wearing. Hiding a smile, I looked over, found the sambhar pot and got a bowl for my young ‘client’. He said a brief thank you without looking up from his seemingly onerous task of negotiating a crisp dosa with a fork and knife. I smiled again and went on my business.

Presentations followed in their board room, and I was doing the bulk of it. During the first stretch break, the ‘sambhar lad’ came over and gave me a sheepish grin and apologized profusely. I courteously patted off and assured him that I get that a lot including being asked questions at station (thinking that I was a ??ticket Examiner) or at airports asking me for the boarding gate ?? … We had a good laugh and resumed the other rigmarole of the meeting. Later, after the two days of discussions, our man came back to me and insisted that I visit his home and that his mother is a Malayali and would love to bandy some Malayalam words. ?I agreed though declining the dinner offer.

In the evening, me still in my formal sartorial countenance, went to his apartment, a walk away from the office. His mother was an elegant lady, quite tall by Indian standards, with a minor hunch of the age and long white hair braided behind. With the pleasantries off the rack, she asked me questions of Kerala, my family. Here is a summary of some of that chat which happened in Malayalam, Malayalam accented Hindi and Malayalam accented English. Her son, excused himself to coordinate some tea and bites

She was a physiotherapist who worked in the Army hospital and madly fell in love with a handsome young North Indian soldier, who was recuperating from a serious knee injury. They got married and had two children, the young man being the younger of them. Her husband passed away several years ago from a heart condition. And she asked me about my parents and then became surprisingly quiet and pensive unlike her early sprightly demeanor. She then went into a monologue not even checking whether I was listening or not.

“ I left Kerala many years ago and went back very infrequently. The odd wedding, many funerals of my parents and close elders and a holiday or two with the children.”

“ I was never there for my parents” she said with a? distant blue in her eyes, ?“I did not see them age beyond the short visits and the phone calls and nor how they changed over the years.”

Then she said “ We don’t really see our parents until they are invisible”. I looked at her and then looked out of the window into a void, to avoid seeing her tear up. “It is when I see myself with the kids today, I remember them more”.

“ I have lovely kids and they were always obedient, loving and even taking care to see to my needs and comforts. But I don’t understand them most of the while. When they were toddlers and could not speak, I understood all of what they were saying and their wants, needs and desires. But today when they are in their thirties, I understand nothing. Most conversations are monosyllable replies to my questions – never irritated or disrespectful but busy.”

I looked at her, she looked a lot more thinner than Amma and at least ten years younger to her and she said things which Achan (father in Malayalam ) often said.

“When your children are not doing well, you are worried about their future. When they are doing well, you are worried about your future because they are never there physically “

I felt that sting through me, it was something Achan said often.

“Most of the time, I am sifting through memories of the past, the times when I my body could respond to what my mind wanted. Whether the memories are good or bad, invariably I land up feeling sad. When the children and now I have a grandchild too, have a banter of their life and I often feel like I am hearing things which are alien to me, like a story I am reading and never part of “.

“It seems like I am waiting for death to come in …. “ And she paused and looked at me. There was no attempt to hide her sadness now and I could feel my eyes welling up as well.

As consultants we are constantly eked on to give responses and replies to questions – the mind is also attuned with that need. But I reflected that she did not want answers, she just wanted to offload a cloud in her mind and I should silently sit and let it rain. And rain it did.

She came back more composed – “You know, my friends who live abroad say that there are fabulous old age homes where we find friendship and camaraderie and people of our age and many in our similar situation. But I cannot think of going to a ‘boarding school’ while leaving my children to their own. If I am here, I will have that feeling that they need me in their lives and that feeling itself is a vision to live for. ?Seeing them grow, going through the rough and tumble of life, nudging them a bit here are there and being part of their lives is more important than remaining as furniture in some regimented place.”

Her son came with tea and samosa ( rissole ) and the conversation shifted to Indian economy, inflation, an aspirational new car and questions on his career and whether it was time for him to move to another bank or firm since he had spent eight years here. This time I gave monosyllable answers and I kept shifting my glance to the lady, who was now looking at me with a twinkle in her eye which seemed to say – ‘There, I told you’ … I did not get time with the lady for the rest of the evening. When I got up to leave, she came out of her room and shook my hands warmly and smiled at me – as if she had shared a secret with me and it was now for me to keep.

Many years later, in casual message from her son, who was now in a senior role in another firm , he mentioned that his mother passed away earlier that month. His Whatsapp profile had the sepia tinted picture of a strapping young lady in army fatigues and a stethoscope in one hand. I looked at it for more than a moment. In the evening , when I went home, I went into Amma’s room , where she was lying down and watching a Hindi soap ?– she talked to me about the program , complained about the new maid , complained about a relative who does not return her calls – as I gave replies, I touched her feet and traced my fingers on the varicose veins on her feet and looked at her with all the love I could muster. Yeah, aging is not easy …