No Child's Play

Rosie Andersen, eight, was due to attend a Cuboree with her fellow scouts at the end of this month. Just like a child who loves to celebrate life would. In an unfortunate turn of events, Rosie perished to a bout of flu, leaving a gaping hole in many a heart.

I was on the train to work when this piece of news flashed on my phone. As a father myself of a three-year old, I am not surprised I was tongue-tied and anguished on reading about Rosie. In a weak emotional reflex I hoped she at least went in peace. How daft of me. There is no peaceful way for a child to go, and there is no platitude comforting enough to offer to its family when this happens, least of all when the cause is something as unlikely as a common cold. Then again, the cause almost loses relevance to the grieving parent who would have known of, but not in the least have been prepared for, the mathematical probability of its happy parenting universe to be shaken thus.

There is a stark difference between ‘knowing’ and ‘understanding’ the pain of losing a child. We know this pain when we read about Rosie, or about the inexplicable tragedy in a hospital of Gorakhpur, India, or more recently the murder of a schoolboy in Gurugram, India. We cluck our tongues in protest, endorse hashtags in solidarity, and by nightfall we slink into the comfort that our children are safe today. It does not matter, then, that the deaths of 61 children in a hospital are politicised, or the murder of the boy in the premises of a reputed school is used to conduct debates on the religious affiliation propounded by the school. If I were to ask a person who has understood this pain first-hand, I am likely to be astonished at the vacuity in these debates.

Surely as parents we are ticking all the right boxes to mitigate any risk towards the well being of our children. We offer them the best nutrition, afford them medical care, admit them to the best educational systems, provide them a wonderfully social environment, and read all the parenting manuals that matter. And we will still be on the edge, forever worrying ourselves sick about a slip through an unseen crack. Which brings me to the rejoinder that a number of us would have heard from our own parents when we were younger:

“When you will have children, you will understand.”

It wasn’t until I became a father that I appreciated the truth in those words. Between my protests and tantrums against various impositions I faced as an adolescent, to the littlest of fusses I make towards my toddler’s daily routine, I dare say I have matured. I couldn’t have seen it then, but I now see my father’s hesitation in sending me to that school picnic because the bus was to make its journey at an odd hour. Or my mother asking me why I no longer shared stories of what transpired that day at school. Or that I must always eat broccoli. (OK, I don’t admit I entirely understand that.) I continue to share a laugh with them about all of these (except the broccoli), but the intent in their actions is not lost on me.

There is tremendous effort, resolve and sacrifice that goes into nurturing a child. In saying that, by no stretch do I suggest that one must wear one’s parenting skills as a badge of honour. It blends into your being — bliss, stress and sleepless nights packaged seamlessly. If you are a parent, you know this already. But more importantly, if you are not, reach out to your parents if you can. Thank them for the good times, for the guidance, for their obsession with your well being. Your stay in that warm cocoon may be temporary, but the reassurance you gain from their obsession stays with you forever.