The End of Innocence

I can see it coming for the time is nigh! All of us go through this stage at a certain time in our lives. The ones going through it cannot wait, because the world suddenly seems a different place, with new horizons and unending vistas. But when it is your own child that you see approaching that stage, it is another thing altogether. If you are wondering what it is that I am ranting about, it is that age when innocence dies, and the first signs of independent intelligence peeks out. It is both heartbreaking and wonderful at the same time, just as it is inevitable, when the wonder in your child's eyes turns slowly into perceptive understanding.

It is that period, when the Tooth Fairy and Santa Claus are replaced by Bratz dolls and Batman and unwavering belief with  doubt and sometimes misgiving. When a gap-toothed grin turns into a self-conscious smile. The stage when restraint and self-awareness takes the place of physical abandon. Up to this stage every present, toy or gift is treated with the same joy and eagerness as any other, when distinctions of colorful buttons and size far outweigh the differences in value. Everything is taken at face value and no merit given on skin color or money. My son went through that stage a few years ago, and I was eagerly waiting for him on the other side. I wanted him to grow up, as much as he wanted it, so that I could have a friend as well as a son. I wanted the physical and mental presence of a mature youth, who I could chat and play with, not realizing that I would be soon outstripped in both elements. I did not miss his full throttled laugh and the desire to play hide and go-seek and catch-catch games, until they were just a memory. Nor did I think much of the preciousness of moments when I carried him fast asleep from the car to his bed, on late weekend nights, until the day when I physically could not do it.

With my daughter however, it is different this time. I love the way her eyes widen when I explain something or say something so far-stretched that only a daughter can believe. I cannot get enough of the wide eyed wonder with which she faces the world. Her absolute faith, that every spoken word is the truth, and that lies are a theoretical concept that only exist in movies. As someone said “Innocence is always unsuspicious”. Her conviction, that every opinion that anyone has, is the absolute correct one, until someone comes and says different. I love her unrestricted laughter, as well as her innocent chatter. I love to feel her curl up in my arms and her soft kisses on my cheeks as she gives me hugs that for me are worth dying for (what my wife calls butterfly kisses and velcro hugs). I cannot get enough of her hero worship, her reactions when I give her the simplest of answers, or the comfort and relief that she gets when I tell her that I am there to wipe away her tears and protect her from everything bad. But what I love most of all are the tickling sessions where she laughs so hard that she runs out of breath, the physical abandon with which she screams with delicious delight as I gently prod and push her in exactly the areas that I know she cannot stand. This stage to me will always be one of gentleness and tenderness, warmth and shared laughter, of an inability or incapability to lie, and an everlasting wonder at the beauty of life.

How can you stop it? Should you even try? I do not know, but I really hate to see the light of wonder slowly die, as intellect, maturity and reason grow. We ourselves stayed as kids for a longer time. Our love for Disney and Enid Blyton endured till a much later age, unlike kids now who outgrow these before they reach double digits. I do not want to get into arguments with her, about the clothes that she wears, or the latest hair-style that she wants to try out, just as I will not want to discuss the excessive attention paid to her looks. These are the death knell for childhood, heralding in an age where the joy of living is replaced by boredom, when being oneself is substituted by being cool, where individuality is traded for conformity, and where indifference and aloofness is the non-emotive fuel used, to propel them faster towards maturity and adulthood.

I want to stop her from using make-up and fussing about her hair, from wearing clothes that suit a twenty-something and using words that she clearly does not understand. There is something about a child that shows the true essence of humanity, reveals our nature as was meant to be, until the thin veneer of modern life corrupted it to something that it should not be. Children are not meant to be clones of adults, but instead should stand out as the beacon of our true selves.

So coming back to my daughter, I see it coming. I see the self-consciousness, the self-awareness and the ego, all growing day by day as the age of innocence comes to an end. My days with this stage in her life are drawing to a close and all I can do is get amazed at the speed with which they came and went. These wonderful years have been captured on photographs and videos, and etched into my brain and my heart, but these will fade, as do all such things, and I will be left with only wisps of memories, to bring happiness on a gloomy day, but never to be lived and experienced again.

The innocent and the beautiful have no enemy but Time - Yeats

False Pretences

I guess there are times when all of us feel a bit of a fraud. Times when we give out an impression that does not resonate with how we feel internally, or when we pretend to be something that we are not. When we are asked to opine on things that we have no background on, or unintentionally create a perception that is not the reality. When our words or actions do not resonate, and in fact hide or mask inner insecurities.

Take for example the fact that I am an Indian. I was born there, studied there and lived in India till adulthood. Hence it is not unreasonable for someone to assume that I would be very knowledgeable on all things Indian, especially if they themselves are not Indian. But that can be as far from the truth as anything can ever be. I spent the first twenty three years of my life in India, but most of those cocooned in a very small area of South Bombay. I would write off the first fifteen years as being too young and sheltered to absorb first-hand the realities of living in a diverse sub-continent. My forays into the city, leave alone the country were sporadic and unenthusiastic. My travels within India were even more restricted firstly because of the short adulthood I spent in India, and secondly due to the limitations imposed by my economic means. Whatever be the reason, the end result is, that I feel I know next to nothing about my Motherland, and it grates a lot when I come across foreigners who have traversed, seen and hence know more of my country than I do. Indian cinema could have filled some gaps over the years had I been fond of Bollywood fare, but the houses, towns and cities that have been portrayed in the few recent films that I have seen, do not look like any that I have seen for real.

Then take Motor Biking. I own a motor-bike and as such it is assumed that I would be passionate about them and that I would know all models of bikes, old and new, and would have a passion for Engines, Torque and BHP. Nothing could be further from the truth! I have absolutely no clue what those terms mean. I know next to nothing about motorbikes other than how to start the damn thing (if the battery is not dead, that is) and changing gears as I start moving. Checking tire pressure is a chore, and jump starting one would be an achievement. A petrol head, I most definitely am not, and when fellow bikers start discussing motorbikes, I tend to let discretion be the better part of valor and keep my mouth shut. I nod sagaciously, hum knowledgeably and throw in a bit of jargon to get by in these conversations. But more than a few minutes of these and I have used up all my knowledge and am running on hot air (literally). I have a tough time remembering the model of my own bike - seriously!! Last week a colleague on hearing that I owned a BMW, asked me whether I had seen the K1200S. Having just a cursory idea about the different models, I just responded in the positive, while mentally fervently trying to recall which one he meant, until five minutes later I realized that he was actually referring to the model that I owned.

I have read tons of books in my lifetime, but other than the fact that I love reading, I might as well have been throwing stones at the moon. I remember a micro fraction of what I read, and in fact many are the times I have actually bought a book, that I had already bought before AND READ!! I know that though I know a little about a lot of things, I know a lot about absolutely nothing. I have spent so much of my time reading a lot, about a lot, that I have landed up remembering very little. It does not help knowing that as every minute goes by, our store of knowledge as a percentage of total human knowledge is diminishing at an exponential rate. Over the years my brain has stopped filtering the information that I pour in, and instead decided to wash it all out, the way our body passes out excess fluids.

I have been exercising for years and years now - running, squash and gym. All I have achieved for my efforts are stress injuries and diminishing flexibility. I may look (not feel) reasonably fit, which fuels the false impression, but when it comes to doing anything physical, I am definitely not very speedy, nor am I particularly strong. I have always been this way, and I will never forget the time a long while ago when I had entered a Community Athletics meet. I was new in Dubai, and though people knew me in the circles they did not know much about me. At the starting blocks of the first heat for the Blue Riband 100 meters event I looked impressive. I looked fit and lean, with toned muscles, stretching like a professional athlete on the starting line, jumping and warming up like I had seen sprinters do on TV, etc. The other participants in the race were at least a decade older than me, and maybe a couple of tons heavier. Some of them were balding, and most had bellies that they would have to hold up as they ran. All of them had probably already made up their minds that I would leave them trailing in my dust and breeze into the first place. Well by now you know how the story ends! All such false notions were dispelled as soon as the starting gun was fired. Within the first ten meters I was behind by eight, and by the time the second to last participant finished his race I was streaking through the seventy five meters mark. I think the guy who finished first was already on his second helping of eggs on toast by the time I breasted the tape. What an embarrassment! I felt like continuing to run straight out of the damn stadium, but at the pace at which I was waddling, it was quite likely that all the events for the day would have finished by the time I reached the exit. And the worst part (that dawned on me later) was that I did not even have the presence of mind to fake an injury to give myself an excuse!!

So now I hope you understand what I mean when I say that there are times I feel like a bit of a con. Physically I am no Usain Bolt, and intellectually definitely no Einstein. I cannot and do not take myself too seriously, and get amazed when others do. I get even more bemused when they take themselves seriously, because in some aspects or all, what I have described above is true for most of us.

So let us remember that life is too serious to be taken seriously!!