And Here Comes The King
Of Parenting and Coming of Age
An ordinary frame of a very ordinary man, bending forward with a smile, to greet me, was frozen in time.
Circa 1981, and fairyland descended on Mother Earth. A fairy sans wings made her way to all the tabloids under the sun. The ‘idiot box ‘prepared to telecast live ‘ the event of the century.’
As Lady Spencer readied to step into the Buckingham world, hand in hand with the Prince of Wales,
We set out to visit the king.
Impromptu, arranged-in-the-last-minute gateways, were my father's forte.
Sensing my excitement about the ensuing imperial extravaganza, this time, my father decided to give me a quick taste of indigenous royalty.
Young that I was, my fairyland residing someplace invisible, was fueled by anticipation.
Thus, on a dull, monsoon day, at dawn, still asleep, me and my siblings packed in our ocean blue family car, embarked on our journey for the august rendezvous.
I opened my eyes to the verdant expanse speeding backward, with no trace of civic imagery. I was not happy.
“ Where ARE we going?”I opened my case, trying to be polite.
“ We are going to a place called Jhargram shona*,” came my mother’s response, pouring all her mother- self into her articulation, dwelling heavy on the upcoming Royal encounter.
My father looked back from the front seat to check on us, as my mother tidied my disheveled tresses and planted a kiss on my forehead. I turned to look through the window.
By afternoon, somewhat settled in the vacay mode, we reached Jhargram.
The palace, re-designed as a hotel was our abode for the weekend.
Freshened up and hungry we played our way to the dining hall to meet our family friends, our company in this merry junket.
Some time into lunch, eyes rounded big with a recall, came the retort,
“Where IS the KING?”
My competence in catapulting straight from the gut, innocent queries, liberally sprinkled with embarrassment were things of a legend.
A couple of eyes turned, my father gave that “ not again” look to my mother, and she took charge like a pro —
“This is your favourite chicken curry…..let’s see, who finishes it first!”
The rest of the afternoon and evening was spent in sitting on a hillock near the palace, fathers dwelling upon, how these detox trips should be undertaken more often, and their fairer parallels, on how the next progeny is unleashing their terror.
As for us, under the unending azure, over the ever visible viridescence, we inhaled life.
King, be forgotten.
The palace, very basic in structure, had a quiet presence, accentuating its folky surrounding. At places, bore the signs of renovation, which has given the edifice a part modern makeover. A good look, you can see the faded hand paintings peeping through a fresh coat of maintenance.
A gargantuan garden, manicured with seasonal beauties, surrounded by large, shady trees, overlooked the palace.
And the next day, we made this garden our kingdom.
While taking circles of the centrally located flower cluster, I was abruptly halted by a stout, medium height, dark-complexioned man, in checkered ‘ lungi’ **and kurta***, in silk.
His deeply engraved, tough face, exuded warmth when he broke into a wide grin, flashing his white teeth.
On my few-seconds arduous journey, to derive on a decision, whether to smile back, I saw my father hurrying towards me.
“ Hello Sir, my daughter has been so eager to meet you!”
And, turning towards me, beaming ear to ear, holding my hand hard, my father announced,” Please do ‘namaste’ to the King”.
As I walked back to our room, loosely tugging at my father's arm, I felt tiredness engulfing me. Not knowing why I retired to a couch seated beside the window. It started to rain as I saw my mother packing in hurried speed and my father transporting my sisters to the car. I slipped into my slumber.
Years later, many travails completed, I wonder why I choose to write this story.
It dawned upon me the reasons for the locales chosen for our childhood jamboree, or for my disappointment in witnessing a King so mundane. It took the lid off some deeply buried understanding of a finely woven fabric of parenting that wrapped our childhood.
The chill felt deep, as a page opened in my cranial diary from the years lost, dated to a pensive day, fraught with a gloomy monsoon flavour:
Check-in: Reality
Check-out: Hans Christian Anderson.
Right Parenting is the single most important instrument which shape minds, society and world at large and I was lucky to have one.I found their words, advice, suggestions useful at every turn of my life, often hitting rough waters.
But I did not chose to write this to declare to the world of my prized possessions, but to let new/wannabe parents have a glimpse of what good parenting may consist of. If this resonates even with a single soul, I will know my efforts saw the light of the day.
- *Shona — A term of endearment used by mothers for their bearings in Bengali
- **Lungi — A traditional attire worn like a full-length skirt, by male folks, originating from the southern part of the country.
- ***Kurta — A loose collarless top wear.
Thank you, Somsubhra Banerjee, Priyanka Srivastava for giving my thoughts the comfort of Literary Impulse.
Thanking everyone who cares to see through my words.
