De-coding

I grew up with some assumptions which I thought while growing up to be the most natural Precis. Yet all along I had to pass through thin membranes of conflict. Growing up was a big onion pealing like process, as it were. While the conflict was there I could not always attribute its cause to those assumptions which were at the root of things. I looked for the more immediate cause, - a tactile causal element to get at, to accuse, take revenge on- for my displeasure, if not misfortune. Although I wrote that in the past tense, growing up has not ceased. It never ceases . What, I think, has happened is that I am a shade more aware that the causes for my anguish may be subtle. I have acquired a bit of a poise to consider that. If that is any measure of growth then I have grown I suppose. Yesterday I was with a friend, drinking at dinner. This friend of mine warms up to the booze and gradually his talk somehow returns to himself invariably. He becomes a big lovable megalomaniac. Sometimes, even those occurrences to which he may have absolutely no connection become his doings! And he gets repetitive. And boring. Had it been some years back, I should most probably have 'put him in his place', as they say. But yesterday, I became aware of my poised reaction to him. I understood him. That allowed me a great deal of room to listen to his 'yarn' if you like, or even indulge him. At the end of our dinner, there was genuine fondness between us. He was happy because I listened to him; I was happy because he was.

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Funny how children think. Funny, because it is funny indeed. Yet the candid directness of their logic is frightfully endearing. Perhaps that is why children are largely loved by most adults. I remember an incidence: There was a teacher of mine who simply did not like my attitude. He did not like my torn shirts and my poverty. Since there was nothing I could do about it, I lived with his tormenting humiliations and punishments. He used to hit me. I dreaded him and hated him, too. I think most of us hated him.

One day I had bunked his class. (I took every opportunity to do so) After the ringing of the bell at the end of the period, I let some time pass before coming to the class from my hiding. Now it so happened that this once when I returned, the teacher was still in the class doing some extra work. I did not know that. I assumed that he HAD gone. He had not. He glared at me as I froze at the door.

"Where were you?" He asked me.

Fear of getting beaten had developed in me a healthy defensive tendency to lie convincingly. I say healthy, because apart from the moral perspective, it was natures way of self preservation. His question triggered a ready to shoot reply in my brain and I said, "I had forgotten xxxxx -a certain something) home, sir. I had gone to get it."

"Where is it?" He asked, seeing nothing in my hands.

" Oh! But it is in my bag, sir. I looked for it in the bag but did not find it. I thought I had Left it home. But I am certain it is in the bag. I must have not noticed in the hurry."

" You went home? Who asked you to go home without my permission?"

"Sorry, sir!"

The point I am trying to make is how this type of questions had impressed themselves on my psyche. When my father died, I often had this at the back of my head. I used to think, "Papa died without my permission!"

I find that touching somehow.

I was about ten years old, thirty five years ago. A long time has passed since then, but I remember these things. They are mile-stones which mark my growth as an individual.