IDHAR UDHAR KI BAAT 141 — THEY LEARN WHAT THEY SEE Brig PS Gothra (Retd.)

 

“Woh jo saara paani absorb kar leta hai.”

That was my three-year-old son’s answer when I asked him the meaning of Whisper. He had learnt the meaning of the word from a television advertisement for sanitary pads.

A few days later, someone remarked, “Your son walks exactly like you.” Children copy whatever the parents do.

Around that time, my neighbour, Mr Singh, had become the role model of every ambitious parent. His only son, Teetu, was born in the year an IIT topper had become a national celebrity. Mr Singh named his son after the topper, perhaps hoping that a little brilliance might arrive with the name.

The entire household revolved around Teetu. In the weeks before his examinations, visitors were discouraged, the television remained switched off and all social engagements were cancelled. Nothing was allowed to interfere with his studies.

One day, Mr Singh came to my office.

“My parents are coming for my mother’s surgery,” he said. “Teetu’s half-yearly examinations are approaching, and I don’t want any disturbance at home. Could you help me arrange a guest room for ten days?”

Two days later, I went to the guest room to enquire whether the elderly couple were comfortable. To my surprise, they were packing. Mr Singh’s father said politely, “My wife has lost bladder control. Despite every precaution, the bedsheets sometimes get soiled. We do not want to inconvenience the staff. We will get her treated in the town near our village.”

For the next five minutes, they spoke only about Teetu. They did not blame their son. In fact, they appeared careful not to say anything that might reflect badly on him. Yet, as I listened to them, I began to wonder whether the surgery had also given them an opportunity to spend a few days near their grandson. As I walked back, I could not shake off the feeling that they had come for surgery—and were leaving with a wound no surgeon could heal.

Life moved on. Every sacrifice appeared worthwhile.

Teetu entered a top engineering college and then one of India’s finest management institutes. Soon, he joined a multinational company at an annual salary several times his father’s income.

Every month, Mr Singh would proudly update me.

“Teetu has bought a touchscreen phone.”

A few months later:

“Now he has bought an iPad.”

Then:

“A luxury car.”

I often joked that if Teetu stopped shopping, India’s GDP might slow down.

Mr Singh would laugh with the pride that only a father can feel.

After retirement, he shifted to a comfortable house in a beautiful second-tier city. For a few years, he called me almost every month.

Then, suddenly, the calls stopped.

Nearly a year later, I called him.

His voice had changed.

“Teetu got married,” he said.

“Wonderful!”

There was an awkward silence.

“I have a grandson too.”

“That is wonderful. Have they come to visit?”

“I have never seen him.”

“Why?”

“They are worried that the child might catch an infection from us.”

I did not know what to say.

Last week, I learnt that Mr Singh had passed away after a struggle with dementia.

Teetu funded the impeccable funeral arrangements. A professional agency managed everything. The hearse was elegant. Fresh flowers adorned the bier. Sandalwood logs had been stacked generously. Pure A2 desi ghee flowed over the pyre.

Nothing had been spared.

Except time.

Teetu could not attend. An important business meeting had come in the way.

As the pujari prepared for the last rites, Mrs Singh quietly turned towards the servant who had cared for her husband through the difficult years of dementia.

“You light the pyre,” she said. The servant froze.

Mrs Singh then opened her handbag and took out two iPhones. One belonged to Mr Singh. The other was hers.

She handed them to the servant.

“Put these on the pyre as well.”

I looked at her in surprise.

She kept her eyes fixed on her husband’s body.

“For so many days, he waited for his son to visit—or for either of these phones to ring.”

There was nothing left to say.

Driving home, one thought refused to leave me.

Mr Singh had prepared his son for IIT and IIM, for multinational companies, boardrooms, airports and global meetings.

He had forgotten one subject:

Home.

Or perhaps he had taught it once—and then forgotten to practise it himself.

Years earlier, when his own parents had come for surgery, he had kept them in a guest room so that Teetu’s studies would not be disturbed.

The lesson had not been lost on the child.

Children, after all, do not learn only from what we teach them.

They learn from what they see.

Perhaps the greatest failure in parenting is not raising an unsuccessful child.

It is raising a successful one who has no time left for the people who made that success possible.

Jai Hind.

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