Daddy talks…
It was 10.30 pm when I reached my building. Such a nice apartment complex. Five tall buildings, overlooking a central garden. The pathways are well lit by tall curly lamps with large hanging cobwebs.
I park my car in the basement and hoping for a moment’s peace, go to the garden bench, near the swings.
My mind is racing. Today has been a difficult day. I wish for some quiet.
Pari… standing on the swing as though she would reach the sky, her tiny palms clutching the metal ropes tight.
I’ve never liked swings. One fall and it’s over. But Pari, unlike my other children, pays no heed to my words. No slowing down, no stopping.
And I have let her be, because she’s a child. BUT
She is getting out of hand. No argument. She cannot knock a child down and expect to get away scot-free. Tomorrow she will commit a crime and these whimpering women will sit back and cry.
I admit that I have grown old, much too old to handle a small child’s demands. My older children would never have dared, never reached this level of impudence. I have held them firm in my grip.
We men are unsung heroes. I do much for my children. SO much.
More than my father did for me. More than my elder brother does for his children. My friends, they appear to be different. But you know how we all are, we smile outside but in our homes, we wield a whip. That’s why I don’t buy their smiles and high philosophy.
Then, why this constant worry? I don’t understand why the weight on my mind does not lessen. Maybe it’s because, despite all my efforts, I get the blame.
I look up at the building, scanning each floor. One… two…three… there, yellow lights shining in the dark. Shadows at the balcony. My children are waiting.
They must be scared. I recall a time when my mother ran out at night, into the open compound. I remember my fear. I was a child. I thought the tree ghost would kill her.
I did not understand the rules my father was trying to lay. Of course, my mother returned. She was strong, stronger than the women of today. Of mind, of body.
My mother bore.
My wife, my sister-in-law, they break. She left, did you know? Four months. My brother is alone in his house. She is staying in another town, with the boys. When my brother walks on the street, people mock him, couldn’t even keep his own house in order, couldn’t even control his wife and children.
He calls me on the phone and cries, I did everything I could to control them!
It seems we men are all suffering from, what is that word? Misogyny. Because, women, as we already know are angelic beings.
Ouch!! I’ve been sitting here for just 5 minutes. Expecting peace in the open night is a fool’s dream. Mosquitoes, rats, cockroaches make the harassed seeker run indoors.
I’d better go home.
My son is at the door. I glance at him as I enter and sit on the sofa. The yellow dim light makes our house seem ghostly, as though evil hides within.
His Didi brings me a glass of water. She doesn’t know how to make tea, such a grownup girl, doesn’t matter, I’ll make sure she learns. She will make a good wife.
My son, waits near the closed door, ready to run out of the house at first chance, is it?
I snap.
What happened? Why are you standing mum?
He shakes his head hurriedly, mumbling…:
WHAT?? What did you say? Do you know how much stress I’m in? WHY CAN’T YOU SPEAK PROPERLY??
He: I-I… No-nothing, Ijustwantedtoknowwhenmummy’scomingback
Tempted, tempted, tempted, to shout NEVER.
NEVER. SHE’S NEVER COMING BACK.
But I know their fear. Their mother may be unstable but they need her. They love her.
I inhale deep.
Tomorrow, I’ll bring her home. Don’t worry.
His shoulders relax, visibly.
My daughter is looking at me, mournfully… I want to flare up, I want to tell her how stupid she looks, dim, ugly girl, what man is ever going to like her? She’s going to be weak, like her mother. Unless I take charge. Unless I teach her to be strong.
Pari? she asks.
I burst out.
What about Pari? One slap. That’s all she needs. And your mother needs to make less drama. She’s acting mad.
And she stands up, crying: NO! YOU DON’T HIT PARI!
What?
YOU’RE ALWAYS HITTING. YOU’RE ALWAYS SHOUTING. YOU’RE THE one who’s always acting… m-m-mad.
Ahh! The shout peters out. I know what that means. How DARE she raise her voice at me?
I slap her.
I slapped my 14-year-old daughter
The only time I ever hit her was when she was 3. I was teaching her Maths. I have never hit her again.
Until now, until she shows me that she’s just like her mother.
What have I done? I have done what was needed to be done.
Haven’t I?
Then why is my mind churning, why am I screaming before my stricken children?
Confusion of chronic rage - lacks the ability to sort out the muddles that trip it up
Rage is confusing, confusion causes rage. It renders us less able to understand what drives our actions, fogs our vision, stunts the self and those who must depend
What lies at the base of rage? Fear.
Bear that in mind, when you see rage.
When Didi brings the problem into the open, rage cannot bear its innermost secrets being opened. Rage cannot bear that others see through its confusion. That’s why the violence.
My book of short stories, The Violent Potter, is available on Amazon. The book is intended for an audience of parents, teachers and grandparents of young children
Link: http://tinyurl.com/466tvf5f
Each story highlights the gap between adult expectations and child perspective. The book is in two parts, Part 1 sees the impact of the gap while Part 2 sees what happens when someone fills the gap with loving perspective.
And… I vlog too, here:
https://www.youtube.com/@violentpotter/playlists