I know what my son did this summer

Parenting is the toughest job in the world — but some of us have got to do it. Summer planning forms a significant part of the KRAs of the urban middle-class mom and dad. What will he do this summer?

This is a cliché, but most parents tend to live their unlived lives through their children. (Clichés, as you know, are coined because they are true; it isn’t the phrase/idea’s fault that it gets overused.) When they rest their heads on the table and write out their homework at an improbable angle, we say “sit up!”.

When they shuffle, we tell them they must learn to stride. When they demand something, we transact with them. As in, “earn it”. They hear the word “no”. As do pets.

I’m not a very competent dad. My idea of parenting is kind of ‘hanging’ (my son is 14). No real plans. I like to watch sport with him. At Wimbledon, the commentator Alan Wilkins was having a good day at work, on Friday, for instance. Vijay Amritraj asked him if he’d seen a better forehand than Del Potro’s, and Alan cleverly responded: “Sugar Ray Leonard’s”. At which, I quickly pointed out that Tommy Hearns, of Detroit, a contemporary in Leonard’s weight category, would have probably been an even better, if more obscure, reference.

I like discussing Kanye and Kim naming their child North. (North West! Har, har, har! And if she grew up to sing about herself, it’d be like ‘North, by North West! More har, har.

I watch stupid videos with him (current favourite “ownage pranks”). Some of this stuff is pretty profane. To which I say, ‘what the hell’, sooner rather than later. I know that parents seldom figure how much their children have actually grown up.

Until they surprise you with a Hearns right hand. Quick, direct, knockout. Like this:

I know what I did this summer: Agastya Sharma Sen, 14, The Sriram School, Aravalli

I was visiting my godparents for a month in Bangalore. During that visit we went to many places. But out of all of them, the one that I hold closest to my heart was my time at the Spastics Society of India.

It had been a few days since I had arrived. And one tomorrow, I was to go teach and help out at the Society. Mrs Mehra, who lived nearby, was the vice-principal of the Society. She was also my ride there. I got up at 7:15, ate breakfast, watched my godmother do yoga, and left for Mrs Mehra’s house. Upon reaching I met her and we exchanged pleasantries.

She was energetic and enthusiastic, more than I expected, at least. We got in her car and drove for 15 minutes to the Society. Our conversation started with mindless jibber-jabber about my life. Then there was valuable information, the fact that they deal with children diagnosed with Cerebral Palsy. Thereafter, we proceeded in silence.

We were five minutes late and had arrived just in time for the morning prayer. By the time we reached the assembly hall, they were halfway through it.

A little child on a wheelchair was singing the prayer, in which they thanked God repeatedly. To no effect. No miracles have happened here.

I went into class with Rukmini ma’am, a friend of my father’s. I helped the children into their classes, some on wheelchair and some with poor balance.

On the first day, we exchanged anecdotes about our recent holidays. Some had watched IPL, some had played with their dolls and some had gone out of station.

It was fun; helping and teaching. Earlier, I was reluctant to go but then I looked at it as: what if Bharath can’t do the chapter on division? Or what if Afrah has a problem with Hindi? For those three weeks, the students were what my life revolved around.

The level at which they were learning was that of nine-year-olds. They were in the cusp of their adolescence. That impressionable age between having hopes and dreams and realising you’re not going to be able to get what you hope and dream for.

Even though, for no fault of theirs, they were in some ways limited, it didn’t mean their creativity was. I saw them in their moments of pure, unequalled brilliance and in times where they went blank.

I taught and helped them for some time. I got my certificate and as difficult as it was, I left.

For three weeks, I thought I taught them math and languages. But I realised I wasn’t the one who taught them, it was they who taught me.

I looked at my certificate with glee and at that moment learnt to be thankful. Miracles do happen. One happened to me this summer.

I didn’t plan this stuff for him, his godmother Tushita did. I have often asked myself, on issues ranging from hygiene to homework, what a parent should do to get the best out of their child. I haven’t invented any formulas, but I’m learning to exclude: think of what works for him; not what you think might have worked for you.

But this is difficult. So, quasi-atheist that I am, I turn to God once in a while for directions and boons. “To no effect”.

In the meantime, however, I am grateful for any knockout punches that collide with my face.

The writer is an author, journalist and consultant editor with dna.