Don’t harbour grudge against children -
The
place was a city in the U.S. The seven-year-old boy had exceeded his normal
quota of throwing tantrums that day, and his dad lost his patience and thrashed
the child. The boy did not cry. He slowly withdrew from the scene and shied
away from his mother, who attempted to cajole him. After an hour, the State
police officers knocked at the door of the house. The little boy gleefully
rushed from inside the house to the door. Obviously, he had alerted the police
on whose grilling, the dad was arrested for child abuse.
After a few days in detention, the dad
managed to extricate himself from the clutches of the law. He did not question
his maverick son why he had taken to the extreme step of roping in the police,
nor did he counsel him. Neither dad nor mom now dares to scold the son, let
alone beat him up. The son forgot the storm that he had created unwittingly and
slowly dissolved in his daily life.
Twenty months later, the family travelled
to India on vacation. After collecting their baggage from the conveyor in
Chennai airport and loading it on a trolley, the dad did something
unbelievable. He slapped his son with all his might and challenged him, “Now,
call the police and complain of child abuse. Let me see.” The son was
completely shocked, puzzled, disoriented and dazed. Tears started flowing down
his cheeks in a torrent, as the hapless crowd in the vicinity looked on. …
This was a happy-go-lucky family living in
India, comprising the husband, the wife, a 10-year-old son and a five-year-old
daughter. The son was bright in his studies but was full of pranks and bubbling
with energy. It was the time when cassette taperecorders morphed the sale of
gramophone players. The father proudly brought home a newly bought taperecorder
and displayed to his wife its various features. The inquisitive son keenly
watched his dad in action.
Some time later, as father and mother were
engrossed in a serious family discussion, the son stealthily walked up to the
taperecorder and activated the ‘record’ function.
After
six months, dad travelled 200 km to his brother’s town carrying with him the
taperecorder, just to demonstrate the cute wonder to his brother. As he
switched on the player, the mellifluous voice of SPB, Suseela, Jesudas and
Janaki permeated the house and his brother’s family was thrilled.
Abruptly, the music stopped and a
conversation emanated out of the machine. The elder brother was talking ill of
his younger brother, while a lady voice ridiculed the attitude of the brother’s
wife. The conversation stopped and music resumed. But by that time, the damage
had already been done and sparks flew. The elder brother realised that his son
must have meddled with the cassette player. Embarrassed, he headed back home.
His son had just returned from school.
Thrilled with securing the top grade in his class and blissful on seeing his
dad return from a trip, the boy ran to him. But dad was no in mood to embrace
his son. With all the energy that he could muster, he smacked his son on the
backside of the head. The son fainted and never recovered. His mental faculties
were irreversibly hampered.
These are real-life incidents, narrated by
friends long ago but which remain etched in my mind, not for the mistakes
committed by the children but for the storage of revengeful thoughts in adult
minds. Children are bound to commit mistakes. They disobey you in the morning
before going to school and return home in the evening completely forgetting
their morning sins. How can one take revenge against such innocent children?
Recall that famous and touching poem “Toys”
by Coventry Patmore.
The
poet concludes that when we (adults) bid goodbye to our lives, God would feel
sorry for our childishness. Then what can one talk of the childishness of
children!
Courtesy (visited 15.12.12)
The Toys
My little Son, who look'd from
thoughtful eyes
And moved and spoke in quiet grown-up wise,
Having my law the seventh time disobey'd,
I struck him, and dismiss'd
With hard words and unkiss'd,
—His Mother, who was patient, being dead.
Then, fearing lest his grief should hinder sleep,
I visited his bed,
But found him slumbering deep,
With darken'd eyelids, and their lashes yet
From his late sobbing wet.
And I, with moan,
Kissing away his tears, left others of my own;
For, on a table drawn beside his head,
He had put, within his reach,
A box of counters and a red-vein'd stone,
A piece of glass abraded by the beach,
And six or seven shells,
A bottle with bluebells,
And two French copper coins, ranged there with careful art,
To comfort his sad heart.
So when that night I pray'd
To God, I wept, and said:
Ah, when at last we lie with trancèd breath,
Not vexing Thee in death,
And Thou rememberest of what toys
We made our joys,
How weakly understood
Thy great commanded good,
Then, fatherly not less
Than I whom Thou hast moulded from the clay,
Thou'lt leave Thy wrath, and say,
'I will be sorry for their childishness.'
And moved and spoke in quiet grown-up wise,
Having my law the seventh time disobey'd,
I struck him, and dismiss'd
With hard words and unkiss'd,
—His Mother, who was patient, being dead.
Then, fearing lest his grief should hinder sleep,
I visited his bed,
But found him slumbering deep,
With darken'd eyelids, and their lashes yet
From his late sobbing wet.
And I, with moan,
Kissing away his tears, left others of my own;
For, on a table drawn beside his head,
He had put, within his reach,
A box of counters and a red-vein'd stone,
A piece of glass abraded by the beach,
And six or seven shells,
A bottle with bluebells,
And two French copper coins, ranged there with careful art,
To comfort his sad heart.
So when that night I pray'd
To God, I wept, and said:
Ah, when at last we lie with trancèd breath,
Not vexing Thee in death,
And Thou rememberest of what toys
We made our joys,
How weakly understood
Thy great commanded good,
Then, fatherly not less
Than I whom Thou hast moulded from the clay,
Thou'lt leave Thy wrath, and say,
'I will be sorry for their childishness.'
Coventry Patmore
Courtesy http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-toys/
No comments:
Post a Comment