‘You know, I want to be a grandfather.’
I put down my newspaper and announce this to my son across the room, in the firm tone of a man who has arrived at a decision and will not be swayed from it. To my disappointment, he doesn’t even bother to turn his head and look at me. He is at work, hunched over his laptop and doing whatever WFH people do nowadays on it. I wait for a reply. It comes soon enough.
‘There’s no harm in wanting, Papa.’ Hmmm…. profound. He continues tapping away at his keyboard.
Incidentally, neither son nor daughter of mine is married, though of marriageable age. Nor do they seem to be in a hurry to do so. But that minor detail does not deter me. I have reached the age—that stage in my life—when I want the patter of little feet and the babble of a baby voice in my life again. How many of you—I am asking the over-55 age group of readers now—feel this way? I mean those of you who aren’t grandparents already? Isn’t this a rite of passage for our generation?
You know what I think? I think it’d be heavenly. To hold my baby’s baby would give me indescribable joy. I could relive that moment…. when ages ago I’d held my first born. It would feel that my little one is back, wouldn’t it? This time I promise to give the new baby the time and the TLC that I did not, or could not, give all those years ago to my children, thanks to my work schedule and my being away half the year, year after year after year. I was just too busy and hassled coping with life to enjoy my babies grow up, watch them learn to walk and talk, make me laugh…and in due course, answer back. Of course, I did have my moments of joy, but the hassles and the responsibility of providing for my kids and trying to be a dutiful father took away some… no, a lot…. of the pleasures.
Not this time. This time I’d savour every minute with my grandchild, much more than I did with my own children. As if my little ones are back. I’d rediscover the world through the toddler’s eyes. The look of wonder when the first raindrop falls on the baby’s face and it looks up at the sky, its reaction to the sounds of the birds twittering in the trees, its gurgle of joy at seeing the wag of a dog’s tail…. I’ll become a child again, growing up with the baby, sharing its imagination and looking at the world through its eyes.
When my grandchild grows up, I would exchange stories and play-act with him/her. We’d take up all kinds of roles from cook to cowboy, from painter to pirate, from astronaut to soldier—all with equal élan. We’d have conversations, both inane and profound. I’d give unconditional love, kindness, patience, humour, comfort, lessons in life….and, most importantly, chocolate cookies.
Perhaps I could make up for the lost opportunities I missed with my children, and make amends—like take the time out to get my grandchildren to learn a musical instrument, take them for singing lessons, tennis lessons, cricket coaching…. whatever they took an interest in.
I’d love to spoil them. Lend a sympathetic ear and nod vigorously when they’d complain about their parents being too strict with them. Bringing them up responsibly after all is primarily the parents’ job, not mine… hehehe. And when I’d get tired of playing with them or talking to them, I’d hand them back to their mother and go back to my newspaper, TV programme or novel. Perfect!
Then there’s the question of legacy. Why must my bloodline end with my son or daughter? Who will inherit what I leave behind or what my children leave behind? Property and wealth that we worked hard all our lives to earn? Some nameless, faceless strangers? If to some charity, would it reach those down the line who actually deserved it? Nope, the bloodline should continue.
Most important of all, how will my grandchildren read my stories if they aren’t born?
‘It’s not going to work, Papa.’
My son interrupts my daydreaming. He still hasn’t looked up from his laptop screen.
‘What do you mean?’ I reply, a little defensively. He obviously has guessed exactly what’s going on in my head.
He sighs. A softly deflating sigh. Managing to convey pity, annoyance, and boredom at the same time.
‘You’ll want to name the baby some ridiculous name like yours. And a typical Bong nickname as well.’
‘But…’
‘You’ll post about your grandkids without my permission on Facebook and Insta.’
While I struggle to think of an indignant retort, he gathers steam. ‘If I have one kid, you’ll want two. If I have two, you’ll want three. You’ll hand over your grandchildren to anyone who wants to hold them. You’ll be careless about car safety with them, because you hate putting on your own seat belt. I’ve noticed you take off your seat belt even on a flight as soon as the plane takes off. You’ll spoil them with chocolates and sweets. You’ll break bedtime rules and disregard instructions about discipline. You’ll shower them with toys they don’t need. You’ll give unsolicited feeding advice to my wife. You’ll complain to your grandchildren what a bad kid I was. You’ll try to force your career choices on them when they grow up.’
He sighs again while continuing to stare at his laptop and tap away at the keys without looking at me, while my brain feverishly thinks of a retort. Should it be indignant or self-pitying? Sorrowful or sharp? But I can’t think of a suitable reply at that moment, and reluctantly return to my newspaper—deflated, disappointed and dumbfounded.
But there’s no harm in wanting, is there? So I dream on, gazing at but not really reading the print in front of me.
Note: This blog is based on a fictitious conversation.
Beetashok Chatterjee is the author of ‘Driftwood’, a collection of stories about Life at Sea. A ship’s captain by profession, he joined the Merchant Navy at a young age and now misses it, having just retired after completing more than forty years at sea.
His book is available on Amazon. Click here.
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