JOIN USMy six-year-old granddaughter, Simran, jumped into my bed on a cold winter night. “Nani, let us get cosy, cosy,” she said, pulling the quilt over us. “Now, tell me a long, juicy and scary story,” she rattled as she snuggled close to me, her beautiful blue eyes getting rounder and rounder. The word “juicy” implied lots of ups and downs, twists and turns.
There was no way I could refuse. I began relating a vividly concocted tale, punctuating it with “oohs” and “aahs” and weird sounds to create an eerie atmosphere. Transmitted into a world of fantasy, her eyelids soon drooped, heavy with slumber. This moment was utopia for me, heavenly pleasure at its very best! I would not exchange these moments for all the wealth in the world.
As Simran slept peacefully, entwined in the comfort of my arms, I gazed at her innocent and serene face. My thoughts went down memory lane to the growing-up years of my children. I would hurriedly relate the shortest possible story, totally bereft of imagination and excitement, ending it with, “Now, quickly go off to sleep.” The concern for getting the children up on time for school far overshadowed the pleasure of bedtime storytelling.
Years later, I vividly remember making doughnuts for my daughter for the first time. She loved them, but I still suffer from pangs of guilt as I just never got down to making them again, despite her repeated appeals. Simran, however, had to ask only once, and there I would be toiling and sweating in the kitchen to prepare her favourite strawberry puff.
Young girls are fascinated by nail polish. They love to adorn their nails, although the floor, walls and their dresses look more decorated in the process! While I hid nail polish from my daughter, the opposite happened in the case of Simran. Nail polish was specially purchased, my husband’s old shirt was converted into an overall, and an old sheet was spread for the exciting activity.
Simran once wanted a pink, flowery spaghetti dress. My husband, a reluctant shopper, hunted high and low for her difficult choice. His involvement was total and complete. This trait was a revelation, as he had never displayed such keen interest and exuberance while buying gifts for our children, let alone for me during our courtship days!
My eight-year-old son, Uday, had a treasure trove of old tools, hardware and electrical items belonging to the junk family. The more pathetic and rundown their condition, the higher was their value. An old suitcase was home to these treasures. During clean-up operations on my husband’s transfer, I disposed off the entire suitcase. My son was heartbroken to find his treasures missing. Till today, I have not forgiven myself for not realising how precious the junk was to him.
A mother gets intensely involved in raising her children. Many other activities as well require her unstinted attention — social and family obligations, running an efficient home, and her own job, all occupy a high place on her agenda. Hardly any time or energy is left to share precious moments with her children — funny incidents in the classroom like Sumit coming to class with an open zipper, why Rahul was made to stand in a corner, the tantrum raised by Arun, who wanted a wig to match his classmate Karen’s curly hair.
In this labyrinth and maze of trivialities, we tend to muddle up our priorities. Looking back over the years, matters which were of importance earlier appear insignificant now. Did it really matter if my home was not picture perfect, or if the dinner for the husband’s boss had only five dishes instead of eight? There are no hard and fast rules on bringing up children. One lives and learns through experiences. Before you realise, time has quickly sped by, and it’s too late. The birds have flown the nest! You have missed out on some of the most nostalgic, beautiful and irreplaceable moments of their childhood. If one could turn the clock back!