Filial love

 

 

 

TODAY, children love and like their fathers as much as they love and like their mothers. The presence of fathers delights them these days. It was not so when I was a child. In those days, fathers would be a great threat for children, particularly to brats like me. In my early days, my younger brother and I spent the whole day making this and that mischief mostly during the summer days.

After the completion of the exam and the declaration of vacations, there was little for us to do except making noise, flying kites, creating nuisance and disturbing siesta of one and all. Elders of the family scolded and did their best to keep us quiet and sit silently and when all their efforts came to naught, their final and most horrible proclamation almost every day would be that “let the Babuji come home.” At that moment, the warning made little impression on us to mend our ways but as the time of setting of the Sun approached which was also the time of our father to come back from office, our fears augmented bit by bit. The fear was not unfounded. The evening time was fixed for the yanking of the ears or a few blows from pa. It was a routine that was invariably the same.

It so happened once that my mother had a quarrel with my father on some issue unknown to me. My father went to office without eating food. Not eating food was a signal that something was definitely wrong between them. Despite many requests from my mother, my father went away saying nothing. The day went normal for me but I observed that mother was a bit upset. She kept herself busy with household chores paying little attention to my monkey business. On seeing all this and sensitive to atmosphere, my mischievous activities were also less roguish. I received little threats that day from the elder members.

The evening approached and father came back. Strangely, my mother made no complaints about me nor was I whipped. She sought many excuses to talk to him but it made little impression on him. After keeping the files and hand bag at its place he went away again. Mother tried to offer him food for which he did not pay any attention, nor did he talk to her and departed without uttering a word.

The tense atmosphere was easily discernible in the house of which I too was a victim. Apprehensively, I lay down near my mother and tried to sleep. The gloominess of the tense atmosphere was looming large on the faces of all. Sleep was far away but I kept my eyes closed. Late at night, father came back still irate. Mother again tried to flatter and persuaded him to eat something and even brought a dishful of thali, as if once he has eaten, every problem will be solved; as if eating food was the only decisive factor of spitting out antagonism. When all this did nothing to calm my father, my mother played the trump card and swore at my head. She took his hand, put it down on my head and insisted that he must eat for the sake of his son’s life. I missed a beat. I was sorry and utterly disappointed for my mother that she had played the wrong card. How the anguish of my father can be appeased for a brat like me! I thought myself to be the most mischievous and despicable member of the household. How would the oath of my head work? But lo and behold! My father got up and started eating his meals.