When I was 13 years old, studying in 8th Std, I had finished reading all books by Harold Robbins and could quote the steamy sex scenes with page numbers depending on whether it is the PAN edition or the NEL edition. Had also finished Alistair McLean, James Hadley Chase, Arthur Hailey etc and was looking forward to the next book release by these worthies. I had also read much of Malayalam literature. Existentialists and Magical realists had entered into my zone of comprehension. I was stick thin. I enjoyed playing marbles, riding bicycles, dreaming about romancing with the class beauty. I had pen friends, collected stamps and indulged in other adolescent past times.
We didn’t have TV in the village in Kerala where I lived and depended on running commentary of cricket matches on radio. We cut out the pictures of Gavaskar, Clive Lloyd, and Farook Engineer etc from the local daily. We played Volleyball, Shuttle and practiced Pole Vault (with limited success). I tried my hand at writing poetry and was criticized by teachers for being too arrogant.
My son, Vasudev Nayar, (also called Chathu at home, after a character in a Malayalam novel by the famous Satire Novelist VKN) is 5 Ft 8” tall- a good 5 inches taller than I were at his age. Eats plenty of Lays potato chips and has put on some weight. Favourite shows on TV are Shin Shan in Hungama TV, European League football and WWE wrestling. He spends hour on Play Station Games, goes on Orkut and touches base with friends with similar tastes. Pretty crass if one would compare notes with my times. But then times change.
He talks very much like a baby. He is not a very sensitive soul. One day I tried explaining the virtues of philanthropy and the humanistic ideals in Communism/Socialism. His response was that the rich has every right to enjoy the money they made. The poor have no business aspiring for a part of it. He is very practical. Has friends and is loyal to friends. When we had to leave our earlier cities behind, he said he was sad to leave them; but never mentioned them again. He has moved on; No ruminating, crying, reminiscing, nostalgia and other sentimental crap for our man.
Last Sunday morning we went out shopping. He wanted a football jersey of one of the European Football clubs. (Arsenal, Barcelona, Manchester United or Chelsea). We went to shops in Sarojini Nagar and couldn’t find the stuff he needs. Then we went to South Extension, the Mecca of Delhi’s Nouveau Riche. Vasu pointed out to a shop which had football jerseys displayed on the window. We walked in and he picked up exactly what he wanted in a few minutes. In these matters he takes after me. It takes me 2 microseconds to decide what I want when I am shopping for clothes. I thought I heard the salesman say it costs Rs 745. I went to the counter and the credit card slip showed Rs 2745-. I swallowed my pride and paid it. I didn’t want to back out from a bill once we had made up our minds to buy it. Moreover didn’t want to embarrass my son with my frugal attitude in front of a horde of cool English speaking sales persons.
I still haven’t recovered from the shock. I told Vasu that it costs me more than 10% of my take home pay (after taxes and PF contribution)- Let him work that out. You could also work that out and start feeling sorry for me. But I was just working that out with reference to our finances. It is more than what we pay on a single shopping expedition on (a) shopping for groceries (b) clothes and books (c) Music and movies.
