A CHIP OFF THE OLD BLOCK - BLOGCHATTER HALF MARATHON 2023

 

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“The Child is Father of the Man,” said William Wordsworth in his poem ‘My Heart Leaps Up’. This is an oft-repeated line which has been used by many over the decades, maybe because it is not only an easy poem to memorise but also makes much sense when children emulate their parents, or do things that earn them a pat on their backs.

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I grew up, an only child for seven years, after which my sister was born. For all those years I was like a sunflower, tossing and turning my head towards the sunshine in my life, notably my parents, both of whom were, in my opinion, outstanding. Often, I would sit and list out what made me like them, probably because I had all the time on the world, as children often do.

Both my parents loved reading, and I grew up with books all around me. My mother ran a library at home where she encouraged children and adults to come and browse around. I still remember that there were some special books which were not only expensive, but also rare. On these, mom would write in her perfect script – “These books are not for lending!” Some had my grandfather’s writing on them, with apt and humorous comments, especially when he disliked a book but did not want to say so, in so many words. He would camouflage his emotions with an acerbic comment on the page.

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“Which heroine in her right mind would fall in love with such a dull hero?” Or when he came across an objectionable statement, he would write, “Was the author in his senses when he wrote this, I wonder!”

My mother would chuckle over these provocative comments which made the text even more interesting for those who read them. She would also add her comments verbally, maybe because she did not believe in writing on books. “One scribbler in the family is more than enough,” she would remark.

I think I inherited my critical spirit from them. Even today, when I read a book, I look at both sides of the picture, and very often, my fingers itch to write a caustic comment on the side. But then, I too refrain from writing on the page because I adore the pristine, well-maintained look of a loved book.

If perfection and logic could take a human form, they would be something akin to my father. Apart from having the most exquisite calligraphy I have ever seen, he had magic in his fingers. He could create beautiful things out of the mundane. I still recall the time when he turned me into a post box for a fancy-dress competition in school when I was in the fifth or the sixth grade. He spent hours over it, creating the red frame, painting in the letters and finally, when he slipped it over my head, I looked like a perfect little post box. Needless to say, I won the first prize.

Years later, when I was an Army wife, we had a gift-wrapping competition for a Ladies’ Meet programme. I thought of my father and what he would have done. The magic worked and I created a little palanquin with red gift-wrapping paper, sequins, gold thread and glue. The final product came out even better than I thought it would and when I won the first prize for it, I sent up a silent prayer to my father, who had passed away decades ago, but who remained with me in spirit. It was, indeed, a ‘eureka’ moment in my life, a ‘chip off the old block’ moment which energised me no end.

Of course, it is not always the best qualities that one inherits in one’s genes! When growing up as an army brat, I remember travelling around with my parents from state to state. Army houses are built out of ingenuity and innovation, and decorated with a variety of artefacts bought from across the country – bedspreads from Rajasthan, ironwork from Murshidabad, jute from Assam, Kathakali heads (we received ten of them when we got married!) from Kerala and mirrorwork from Gujarat. My mother was the ultimate ‘bargainer’ and could bring down the price of just about anything. Our house was filled with beautiful eclectic pieces which mirrored the interiors of most army houses.

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The magpie instinct trickled down to both my sister and me. Both of us could never refuse a good bargain. My baby sister, on the other hand, would buy things, use them well for a season, and discard them once she tired of them. That habit never rubbed off on us, her two elder sisters, who would hang on to every little object d’art we had till doomsday, and probably, even further.

All I can say to sum up is this. We inherit the best of our parents, if we are lucky, and the worst, if we are not. However, every little gene travels down in the hope that it will enhance the life of the offspring it travels into. I truly believe that in my case, I would have been a very different personality, had I not my parents’ genes within me, and as a popular heroine once said to great effect, “I am my own favourite!”

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This post is a part of the Blogchatter Half Marathon 2023.

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