A revolution and some revelations

October 06, 2015 12:01 am | Updated 12:01 am IST

Revolution has always been in the hands of the young. – Huey Newton

It all began with his arrival, and there was a revolution of sorts. It was a radical reconstruction of the fabric and fundamentals of the system. No blood was shed, no slogans were chanted. No pamphlets were passed around. There was not even a hint of what was in the offing. But it happened…

He quietly went ahead with the job at hand – with blatant disregard for the conventions and traditions of the existing system. The resistance was just nominal. Most obliged. The more refractory ones threw a few stares in a bid to browbeat him. The stares were met with an innocent smile in return. There was no other go but to oblige. Everyone receded smilingly to their new zones of comfort. So it happened. Even before anybody could realise that it was happening, it was all over!

Before my little one made his entry, decorum was the watchword at home. Intolerance to indiscipline was the norm. A speck of dirt would trigger uproar. A misplaced magazine would spell doom. The dining table used to be the temple of silence. At the helm of it all was the monarch, the commander in chief – my father.

The little one came, he saw, he conquered – both the system and the hearts. Soon, decorum was replaced by pandemonium. Discipline was kicked out the window. Speckless walls were transformed into spaceless canvases. The dining table was transfigured to be the new PlayStation. Still, nobody complained.

A reshuffling of the portfolios was inevitable. The usually nonchalant, irresponsible, rebellious son that I was, got promoted to the uncomfortable post of the most responsible [to be] person in the system – the father. The erstwhile disciplinarian monarch grabbed with both hands, the honorary post of grandfather. His job was to render unconditional support and patronage to the ongoing revolution.

My mother developed second wing; her physical worries disappeared into oblivion. Debilitating arthritis gave way to miraculous flexibility. My siblings relished their new assignments as uncle and aunty – hand in glove with Appa and Amma as “perpetrators” of the revolution.

The most coveted post was that of the jester. Everyone vied for it. Making the little one smile became everybody’s mission. Appa and Amma relived their kindergarten days. Buffoonery scaled new heights. Innovative antics breached all bounds. Neighbours, visitors and house-maids joined the act. Age was no bar. Socio-economic status receded into the background. All energy was channelled into one goal – a precious little smile.

Revolution heralds renaissance. While the rest of the world revelled in the ecstasies of dancing to his tune, the new-born father that I was, basked in the enlightenment of the revelations he brought. He brought with him the answers to the riddles which have been stalking me since the days of teenage wisdom.

Why did my mother keep saying, “I wish you never grew up”? Why did my father’s eyes seem to glitter every time they met mine? Why does their love never seem to dry up despite being repeatedly wounded by our belligerence? Why do they invest their dreams in us, wanting us to be everything they could never be? What did Appa mean when he said, “Son, you’ll fully understand my feelings, the day you become a father”? And many more such.

Revelations, renaissance and revolution – all came from above with the little one.

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