WHAT KIND OF STRENGTH WAS THAT?

Pic.: Rachna Talreja

In the afternoon, yesterday, a gentleman and his wife, who looked in their mid-fifties, had brought their son to me. They wanted to enroll him, here, for F.Y. BMS. I was told that the young-man was their only child, born after ten years of their marriage.

During the discussion, the parents asked me about the text-book. I had, before me, a copy of the text-book which I showed to the young-man.  

“Write it down,” the father handed his pen to the son.

The son pulled the i-phone from his pocket and, in a second, clicked a picture of the text-book...

The father looked at his wife, bewildered, as he tucked the pen back into his shirt pocket.

The mother offered me a broad smile... “The new-age young-kid, sir,” I could read the language of her smile, “We are old-timers.”

“You have to teach this to your dad and mom, too, dear,” I said gently to my prospective student.

“They have a big mental-block for all this; look at dad’s phone,” the young-man pointed to his father’s outdated model.

“But, sir, he has no patience to teach us anything about computer, internet or cell-phone,” the mother complained, “He only yells at us calling us ‘dumb’!”

I quickly diverted the topic, before the young-man could pounce on his parents...

As they left my office, I imagined – I believe, as all fathers do: how this father must have played the arm-wrestling game with his son when he (son) was a little-kid. I imagined how I used to play with my own son... It was fun, a sheer delight to watch the exuberance and feeling of victory on the face of the little-fellow as his father lost...

“Dad, see how strong I am;” the little-brat would show his muscles, “You have no strength; you have to eat well, ok?”

“You are right, my darling son,” the father would concede meekly, “You are my strong son!”

What kind of strength was that? Who was, in deed, stronger?

And, now, when the little-kid has turned a young-strong-man, certainly, the father would dare not play, anymore, the arm-wrestling game with his macho-son...

But, then, there is another kind of wrestling he tries to play with the young-man... and deep down in his heart, he wishes how amazing it would have been had his young-son done the same to his father... that is: allow his dad to win... feel exuberant and show his mental-muscles, and declare, “Look son, how strong I am!”

Yes, the game now is: while talking about the computers and the internet, while talking about the cell-phones and the cars, while talking about the malls, the music and the movies, while talking about how galaxies and the governments are run... how fine clothes are worn, how swanky homes are designed... how food has to be served and drinks to be savored... and, yes, how the sweetheart has to be treated...

The father has no strength to match when it comes to this kind of wrestling with his young-one... But, he, often, tries to outwit, win... only to come out bruised and battered...

Why doesn’t the new-age young-son – who is blessed with this new strength – simply allow his father to win... feel happy?

I am not going to get any answer to this question, I know...

Perhaps, that’s how it was, it is... and it is going to be...

My heart is really, really smiling!

GERALD D’CUNHA