The crosses we bear

"Les caught Akhan's eye. They exchanged a very brief glance which was nevertheless modulated with a considerable amount of information, beginning with the sheer galactic-sized embarrassment of having parents and working up from there." Jingo. Terry Pratchett

We are always embarrassed by our parents; when we are full of youthful arrogance and know all that there is to know, our parents seem so clueless, hopelessly ignorant and quaintly out of touch.

Families embarrass us in other ways too. We all go through the stage when we'd rather die than be seen with our parents in public. We are comfortable with our mater and pater doing what they do in a 'at home' milieu, but to be associated with them in public, well, that is a different thing altogether.

This was brought home to me in definite terms as my son grew up. At some point he stopped needing parenting and slipped off the apron strings.

Accompanying me on my shopping expeditions of the mundane sort, or even shopping trips of the mall variety became beneath his dignity. Even in bookshops, he'd slope off on his own, pretending he was alone, until he saw a book he just had to buy.

There was a time when his friends used to sprawl on my bed and play cards or Scrabble for hours on end, when I was a part of the games. My son and his best friend used to team up to try and beat me in Scrabble. We'd make up for own rules for rummy.

Then, they used to crowd me in the kitchen as I made snacks and thought nothing of demolishing French fries by the kilo, and asking for more.

Nowadays his friends, when they visit, disappear into his room, from behind the closed door of which then would emanate sounds of computer games of the violent 'kill everything in sight' variety. When I knock on the door with plates of snacks, the door opens a crack, the plates are grabbed and the door unceremoniously shut again. The same people. Different age.

The same child who delighted in the Owl and the Pussycat became mortified that his mother could recite "'Twas brillig and the slithy toves" perfectly, but couldn't discuss the merits of Caro-Kann Defence versus the French Defence, or deconstruct the shifting attacks of the Reshevsky - Najdorf 1957 game.

Like I said, families embarrass us. Having them is bad enough, but having to acknowledge them is worse. It is painful when they are somewhat famous. It makes our lives a misery in schools or social circles, always being 'So and So' s child. It gets positively excruciating if you share interests or opt for a career in the same field. Mind you, it doesn't get better when you choose an entirely different field, either.

I dropped out of my post-graduate course because the head of my Department insinuated that my father wrote the seminar I gave on Vijayavilasam, saying, 'you couldn't have done that research by yourself, it is too polished a presentation.' Like my father had the time or inclination to do my projects for me.

I did have the advantage of his library, which was rich in pickings for literary research, I'll admit. Where others had to slog it out in the University library, I did my research at home, but I did all my research and notations on my own. And wrote that paper on my own.

But that offhand implication, that I didn't do my homework because, you know, my Dad was the cat's whiskers and bee's knees when it came to these things- that hurt. My father didn't even know I was researching 'Vijayavilasam,' and wouldn't have stooped to write my presentation for me if he did. He was a busy man.

Being my parents' daughter made me write under a pseudonym, to neutralise it. But when I won a prize in a competition and my novel was serialised, they published my real name, and I had to face insinuations that I was awarded the prize because of my identity, not my skill.

I was relieved when distance and estrangement with contemporary literary trends put paid to my writing, frankly. The anonymity of being a housewife and a mother was comfortable.

This is all ancient history, but there is a reason why I am recounting it.

Now I blog. This is as far as it gets from creative writing and poetry, so there won't be any comparisons, I thought.

I was explaining blogging to my mother. It is an online journal that is updated regularly, I said. And if one has a few readers who take the time to comment, some lively discussions can develop, I said.

"Ah," she nodded her understanding, "you have become a columnist." "Not really," I said. "I write about various things, any topic that strikes me, and I talk about crosswords and English usage."

"That's what a columnist does, talk about things. So you've taken after me, after all, " she said complacently.

She has been a columnist for more years than I have been alive.


Cheers!