Encounters at the ATM (of the very terrestrial kind!)

I sauntered up to the local ATM and noted that the cabin was occupied but there was no queue. Good. I would be first in line. Before I could even register what was happening, I was shoved aside, gustily, by two men who could only be our MLAs – the clothes and the body language proclaimed them to be so. While one stood outside the door, the other barged into the cabin while the previous customer was still inside and demanded to be shown how the ATM should be used! The customer in question was obviously a gentleman; he courteously imparted instructions, counted his cash, collected his receipt and exited.

In the meantime, a queue had built up behind me and was getting restive. The newly instructed ‘client’ was fiddling around with the buttons and showing no inclination to complete his transaction. His companion requested the watchman to assist. The watchman obliged. The two finally walked away with their cash, but not after a few pointed and pungent remarks from ‘members of the public’!

My turn next. Business done, I walked out and past the queue, and headed back towards home. Suddenly, my attention was caught by the woman joining the line: beautifully attired in crimson blazer, black skirt and matching crimson stilettos, her attire was the perfect foil to her flawless ebony skin. Gazing in admiration (I’m a sucker for couture, not necessarily haute) I almost missed the child behind her. The tot could not have been a day older than three; wearing the neatest black and white checked dress, she trotted stoically behind the woman. Judging from their resemblance to each other, they must have been mother and child, but the woman did not glance behind; it was as if she knew that the child would follow. Obedience instilled. The little one even managed the steps to the ATM on her own, unafraid and doggedly determined. An Indian child of that age would have been hand-held if not carried by the mother, a relative or a maid. We take good care of our Bunties and Babloos, judging by the plump customers filling up on burgers and milkshake at the local MacD’s.

I am reminded of the topic I posed my Journalism students – ‘Does childhood exist today?’ Most of them mourned the ‘death’ of childhood, listing the various ills and woes that beset the child of our time. One savvy student begged to disagree: she argued that as long as there were children, there would be childhood though each generation would necessarily have to ‘break the mould’ as the world moves forward. Children, as only children can, would still possess ‘unbridled curiosity and potential for mischief’!!

One sighting of a self-possessed little child and I cannot dismiss the image from my mind. I wish I had seen her look around, laugh and chatter.

Growing up Grant...

...was a far cry from Growing up Gotti. The statement, on the other hand, alliterates just as resonantly!

My last two blogs took me back in time (yes, I know, I do it quite often!) to when I started reading. As soon as I was able, I was allotted the children’s section of the daily paper to enjoy. Once it was felt that I could ‘graduate’ to more serious topics, I was encouraged to read the entire publication. Starting with the daily cartoon, one progressed from the sports, to the international news, to city happenings and finally to national events – a routine which continues to this day.

What made this practice special was that I had to be able to discuss a topic of my choice, from the news of the day, and state my opinion. The only proviso was that I should be able to justify it. I could not say that a particular person was ‘bad’ or that a particular decision was ‘stupid’, I also had to reason why and try and hold my own in the ensuing ‘argument’! Now, many, many years later I am able to receive the news objectively and questioningly. There is an involvement with the happening world. There is an interest in things other than just myself and my immediate environment.

Home and family set the foundation for the child to become parent of the adult (‘father of the man’ now being politically incorrect?!). A child who is raised to be connected will more often than not turn out a caring and concerned citizen. A child who is taught by example to be indifferent will probably be clueless to all else other than what is needed to pass examinations. Certain educational institutions may seek to address this problem, but they are more likely to be successful in capturing the mind; it is the home that captures the heart.

Children learn what they live – and life begins at home.

Incidentally, though my mother today needs a magnifying glass to read her paper, she insists on being au fait with the news! There’s example for you.

Growing up Grant was not always such sweetness and light. My parents believed in corporal punishment and I did try to break a few records in that area! But, as a passage from my diary recalls, through all the patterns that make up the tapestry that is life, there runs a thread of gold – treasured memories and the practices that make us what we are.

And yes, I have plenty of anecdotes about ‘Growing up Grant’. Let’s see what memory dredges up next!

Pitter Patter Raindrops

A friend posted a comment on Facebook, calling to mind childish rhymes associated with the season – the wet and windy Indian monsoon.

I was taken back in time to all the happy memories which had taken a backseat, particularly in view of the havoc wreaked in recent years. I remembered the joy of that first pair of gumboots – fire-engine red. The first puddle and the giant splish-splash caused by a well aimed jump at dead centre. Dancing in the rain and getting drenched. Twirling umbrellas of every hue, turning a grey day into a rainbow. Childish poems lisped excitedly, coaxed into existence by adult coaching. And one of my favourite songs: Joy is like the Rain – a simple melody composed and sung by the Medical Missionaries a long, long time ago. Isn’t it funny how one jog to the memory can release a chain of thought?

To a child, rain is an enjoyable variation in the seasons. Hot pakodas and butter melting off roasted corn-on-the-cob, finger lickin’ good. Cancelled schooldays. Sailing paper boats in suddenly appearing rivers off the kerbs. Tracing the path of raindrops on a steamy window, watching a drenched world without, from the safety within.

The adult perspective has a more jaundiced view (pun intended!). Monsoons mean gastro, dengue, malaria, floods, traffic snarls, open manholes, collapsing buildings, leakages – inconveniences galore. The adult world is not a nice place to be.

And, suddenly, I think of snails. Snails, tiny and large, crawling on leaves and across window sills, lured by the freshened earth. And I have a poem to share with you, a poem which brings together the adult, the child and snails!

For a 5-year old – Fleur Adcock

A snail was climbing up the window sill

Into your room after a night of rain.

You called me in to see and I explain

That it would be unkind to leave it there.

It might crawl to the floor, we must take care

That no one squashes it. You understand

And carry it outside with careful hand

To eat a daffodil.

I see, then, that a kind of faith prevails;

Your gentleness is moulded, still, by words

From me who have trapped mice and shot wild birds.

From me who drowned your kittens and who betrayed

Your closest relatives and who purveyed

The harshest kind of truth to many another.

But that is how things are. I am your mother

And we are kind to snails.

Note: The graphic is from Discovery's School Clip Art

Childhood yesterday, today, tomorrow?

Thunder and lightning greeted daybreak and looking up at the stormy skies, I waited for the deluge with anticipation. Sure enough, the rain came bucketing down, thrumming on the weather shades and splashing off the sills and panes. I revel in the noisy fanfare that heralds a goodly shower, thanks to remembered childhood tales of the Norse gods who threw thunderbolts or hammered enthusiastically on heavenly drums. The rain, of course, was the result of heaven’s floors receiving their annual wash down! There is a lovely anecdote which tells of a child looking up and smiling at every flash of lightning because ‘God was taking her picture’. It is incidents like these which recall a childhood filled with magical moments. And it is these moments that we carry through to adulthood even though we also belonged to the ‘spare the rod and spoil the child’ generation.

Over the last few days, the newspapers have spoken to us of the death of a child – a little boy who committed suicide because he was caned by his headmaster. And as part of the media focus, a prominent columnist, a ‘bad girl’ by her own admission, has stated her point of view. No stranger to the Principal’s office, I too received my share of whacks: smarting palms, stinging calves and strident scolding were battle scars - of skin and ear - to be endured. And we are certainly here today to tell the tale with, perhaps, a hint of bravado? Suicide was definitely not on the agenda and despite the ignominy of the label and the cane, life was for living and living to the full.

So, why would a little boy want to throw away his life? Are today’s children more sensitive, more vulnerable? He brought stink bombs to the classroom which, in my time, would have been paid for by a good long kneel, on a very hard floor, hands to ears and copious tears. An additional whack from a parent for good measure reinforced the message that stink bombs were a no-no. Perhaps caning is also a no-no. But the trigger for suicide? Surely, there must be more than that.

Childhood begins in the home. That place where attitudes and abilities are formed and the armour to face the world is built up bit by bit. And home is where we need to look. Tragically, the life that has been lost cannot be brought back, but other parents can open up to the heartfelt message – cherish your child. A child that is well grounded and secure can communicate and be reassured in return. A child that is loved in a stable home environment will not blow out of proportion the anger, or punishment, meted out by an ‘outsider’. A child which can interact with its parents does not need to internalize fear. And a child that knows the rough and tumble of the real world, rather than the virtual one of television and video games, can face up to almost anything this nasty old world will certainly deliver.

Blame and shame are deterrents but not the solution. The solution lies in truth. A child is dead and with him the truth of the situation has also died. But there are other children with lives to be lived. And care and counseling of both child and caregiver will help them realise that wonderful truth.