The evidence of an interesting childhood follows us well into adulthood. Yes, the childhood scars on my knees, shins, elbows,
wrists, forehead and other random places all bear witness to that active
childhood. Slowly, the scars seem to fade away with age. And with it, memories
of events of how each one came to be…
I have stitches on my chin. From two separate incidents, if
I remember right. One has something to do with falling off of a guava tree (I hope
that guava was super sweet), but it’s the other one that I remember clearly. I
am about six years old, standing on a swing, and swinging away, when I see my
parents and decide to wave. I know…I know… always the smart one….
I fall on the gravel, straight on my chin. Miraculously, none
of my limbs are broken, but I am in a pool of blood. My father picks me in his
arms and rushes to the street outside the park, where an autorickshaw driver is
standing by a street food cart, and eating something yummy.
When asked, if he is available, he shakes his head to say no,
without looking up. But when he catches a glance of a blood-soaked me, without another
word, scrunches his snack in a paper, leaps into the rickshaw, and pulls to start
it. We are already inside the humming vehicle.
I have no memory of the hospital or doctors or ensuing
procedures. What I remember, very distinctly, is my father narrating the
kindness of this rickshawala. Several times. To several people. I remember his
joy and gratitude (and possibly relief), as he narrates the story.
Yes, we are the stories we hear. Although I do remember plenty
from when I was as young as three, the “clearest” are those that I have heard
narrated, either then, or later.
Some are fun, some make me shake my head. And of course, there
are always the silly embarrassing ones, that I continue to hear even today… as
do all of you, I’m sure.
You don’t remember her?
She lives in Mumbai – you broke that big vase in her house, remember?
Great. Now I do. Very well. Thanks Mom.
Funny thing though, is that I’m still not sure I remember her.
I remember mostly the proceedings of that day, after I break the vase… ahem…
Yes, our memories of events of our childhood are often a mélange
of our own scattered memories as well as the events as recounted by the adults
around us, colored by their impressions of those events.
And that brings me to now. To our bizarre and unusual today,
where we have all been cast in a strange sci-fi film with an ending that is yet to be determined.
In the future, how we remember the events of Covid19 will be
different from how our children remember the events. But along with their own
impressions, they will also carry our impressions that will be etched in their
memories. That puts us as parents in an odd, subconscious place of power.
It asks for us to ground ourselves and see the world with its bad, as well as its good. To notice the kindness, the courage, the generosity that is prevalent, as much as is the panic.
It asks for us to ground ourselves and see the world with its bad, as well as its good. To notice the kindness, the courage, the generosity that is prevalent, as much as is the panic.
Who will we be? And how will that affect how our kids remember
the events of this pandemic?
I have been asked about the scar on my chin often. Each
time, the guava tree story somehow fades in the background, and I mostly mention
the swing incident. And each time, I remember the rickshaw driver who took one
glance at me, covered in blood, scrunched his food in paper, jumped into the
rickshaw and beckoned us in. It was an awful fall and I was probably in a lot
of pain, but years later, what I remember is the riskshawala’s kindness… and that
may be a gift my father left me…
