The Brat

The brat is about to leave home for hostel and mighty pleased about it too. I guess I should be equally pleased now that all my dreams of leisurely week-ends and spending long relaxed sessions at the spa look perilously close to being realized. The birth of the brat is kind of a watershed in my life. All memories of the pre-brat era have turned hazy. Instead the grey-cells (whatever remains) are all filled with snapshots of a mother forever running around like a head-less chicken, trying to balance the physical, mental and spiritual upbringing of a child. While the first two could be measured to some extent by report cards issued by different external agencies, it is the third one that gives me sleepless nights. The brat has always demonstrated a silent but resolute way of defying us. 

It can be traced to the very early efforts, when we decided to buy non-violent and gender-agnostic toys for him. A couple of dolls were bought under this scheme. The first doll succumbed to the efforts of a boy who would insist and then forcefully ensure that the doll should keep its eyes open even when it was meant to close it while being laid down. Not ones to give up easily, we tried a second one, which never closed its eyes but wailed when the pacifier was taken out of its mouth. The patience of the doll was tested till the battery gave up. When I replaced the battery, the pacifier was not to be found anywhere. To retain sanity and peace, the doll project was given up. Soon enough the house was full of cars. Small, medium, large - they came in all sizes, colors and models. 90s was the era of globalization. New models were launched on the roads and a miniature would soon find its way to our home. Friends and relatives were very happy since no one had to ponder over the gift to buy. The house was a mini-show-room in which three-wheelers, trains, army-trucks vied with Mercedes, Ferrari, BMW and Rolls Royce for every inch of available space on shelves, cup-boards, dressing-table, dining table, sofa-sets, beds, book-racks and window-sills. That these vehicles were manned by GI Joes and other army-men from around the world was an obvious graduation

.

The brat was very happy when it was time to go to the play-school. But the class-teacher, a sweet-natured and homely lady soon complained that he ignored her completely and chose to follow the fiery beauty who was in-charge of the other section also co-located in the same room. They had even christened him as “Mary’s little lamb”, but apparently that did not deter him. We had no solution to this. So we requested the teacher to give him some time. Very soon, she was back with the next set of complaints that the brat refused to learn to count from one to ten and insisted on saying that “My mother’s name is Ma and father’s name is Baba”. This time we protested and insisted that a two-and-half-year old was too young to bother about numbers. Besides, we had ample proof about his counting capabilities even without knowing the number names. Even if a miniscule hot-wheels car was removed from his huge collection, he would immediately charge back - “Where is the other car? “(Arekta gari kothay gelo)?” The teacher, obviously more worldly-wise glowered at us and said “God help you during school admissions!” 

Thankfully, there were still a few reputed yet sane schools in Delhi which were ready to admit three-year-olds who chose to be free-thinkers in spite of not knowing their numbers. But when we went to drop him the first day, for once we were scared. It was a huge school with large sprawling gardens. There were scores of buses bringing hundreds of children from all over Delhi. Most of the children in his class were double his size and almost one-and-half times his age. What if he is trampled over? What if he loses his way? What if he falls asleep in the bus?” The class-teacher, once again a sweet and caring motherly woman assured us, “Don’t worry, we are there.” However, I don’t know whether even she could have predicted the survival strategy adopted by the brat. He forged friendship with the largest and the strongest in the class. In lieu of that, he declared, I was to fry a dozen or so of the finest sausages for recess to keep his friends happy and protect him from being mauled over by other kids. There was another way, he suggested. Since I was already a “Ma’am”, I might as well cut my hair short, leave my sarees behind, get into trendy tops and trousers and then become a teacher at his school. After all, teachers’ kids are revered and blessed too. To be precise, they are exempted from all punishments, he said.

Thus started the process of transformation. When I caught him with his first fib, he argued that it was not a lie, but a story. Finding me agape, he took pity on me and added, “Mom this is not a lie. This is a story that I made up. Just like the one you had made up about Santa Claus dropping gifts through the chimney. We don’t even have a chimney Mom! I figured out that it must have been you. But did I complain?”

India was changing. Susmita Sen and Aishwarya Rai set the ramps on fire across the world. It was time for the brat to write the first formal class-tests - first in the series of many that defines the life of a school-kid in India. When the results were out, I as a dutiful mother had to show a measured scorn at the 90 odd percent that he had managed. “What is the highest score? Who all got it?” “98. Samriddhi.” A few seconds of thoughtful silence was followed by - “But she wears glasses!” “Glasses!” I was incredulous! “What has glasses got to do with it? Do you have a problem with your eyes?” “No. But girls who wear glasses can never be beauty queens!”

Well, a mom has to grow up! Just like his clothes and his load of books I continued to grow with him. One day he bolted the door at bed-time insisting that he was no more scared of bad dreams, storms and thunders. I lay in the other room half-awake for the first few nights till one day I fell asleep tired, a little sad but also happy. The brat had grown up. One evening I came back home to find that a wall of his room was completely covered with crayon drawings and posters of his favorite footballers. I had to learn to live with Messi, Kaka, Dida, Robin Van Percy, Rooney, Ronaldo, Ramsey - their stories of dedication and betrayal.We had to scour the length and breadth of foreign cities during our conference trips to find authentic jerseys of Manchester United and later Arsenal. And if I ever happened to mix up the two, I was threatened with dire consequences and requested to always remember - "Once a gooner, always a gooner", apparently the motto of an Arsenal fan! 

Time has come for the brat to spread his wings. He knows how to take care of himself and looks forward to it. I should be happy that there will be no more early-morning alarms ringing. I should be happy that I won't have to bother about tiffin-boxes, lunch-packs and evening teas. I should be happy that there would be no more parent-teacher meetings where I would have to wait with bated breath for God knows what the teacher would say. I should be happy with all the me-times that lie ahead of me. Why am I fretting?