With the dramatic arrival of my baby boy on November 28, 2010, I have finally managed to join the prestigious club of fatherhood riding on an elated hope that this little angel would eventually make his daddy’s head held high in an otherwise ordinary and routine existence. In the twist and turn of life, his arrival in a new family has change the equation for good and is pleasantly a welcome break. Instantaneously, the fatherly instinct grips over and all the worries and concerns, mostly conjure up in the imagination of a new dad, starts kicking off in the backdrop of hush noises, unapologetic pleas and cries at odd times and a lot of deprived sleeps. In the confused and dishevel mind of a new dad, there are more questions than answers and as I carefully cuddled my son, I actually realize the enormity of the situation wittingly created by me in reproducing a part of my blood and soul and the responsibility of nurturing it in the best possible ways in a big bad world. At the end of it all, it dawned on me that all these are part of the marvelous package of becoming a dad.
Undoubtedly, birth is the harbinger of hope heralding new beginning with comforting thought that at least our dream and legacy would continue with memorable footprints in the sand of time. To go to the bottom of the unfolding saga is, however, a long drawn process involving the interplay of complex variables enmeshed in an intricate web of relationship seemingly link with one’s destiny. To begin with is the process of metamorphosis from a carefree bachelorhood to a responsible fatherhood. With rosy dreams gliding on high expectations nurtured in colleges and universities, the idea of settling down, least of all having kids, was almost not in a scheme of consciousness. The misconception of bored parenthood with incessant crying kids driving them crazy was a huge put off then. Then came a stable job, which suddenly catapults you into that extraordinary league of ‘most eligible’ bachelors supposedly having high matrimonial value. In a society where one’s privacy is constantly being probed and must be explained to the satisfaction of all, I finally decided to take the plunge and cheerfully tied the knot without much fuss.
As the years go by with deliberately no issue, the constant probe on ‘good news’ by all and sundry literally takes the sheen out. In super fast pace of life, the necessity of adopting gradual and holistic approach for setting up a ‘happy home’ do not seem to exists in the lexicon of the modernist mindset. The matter had, therefore, to be taken up to the next logical conclusion. And so it happens on that fateful day of 28th November, 2010 when the stars were in perfect strategic alignment.
The drama unfolds when the doctors confirmed about the baby and the series of visits to the maternity hospital thereafter. The fatherly instinct was very nascent then but the discovery in the hospital during each eventful visit had made the male species sit down and take notice. If empowerment of women truly exists, then the concept is implemented in letter and spirit in a humble maternity hospital where women rule the roost. They were obviously the preferred customers and they alone have the power to decide their fate behind closed doors of female doctors. For a change, the male species appear to be rendered totally redundant and reduced to mere bag carriers of their privileged wives with anxiety writ large on their faces. Instinctively, the male ego in me decided to take the matter head on but each time was shown its place by empowered female security personnel.
In exasperation, the attentions were then shifted toward observation of various size and shapes of the bulging bellies of wives when they were anxiously standing in queue and by employing scientific methodology, quietly predicting the gender of babies safely ensconced in their mother wombs. This monumental study was based on two crucial scientific parameters: bulkier and irregular belly indicate a baby boy; and smaller and rounded belly indicate a baby girl. With this methodology conveniently in hand, it was summarily declared that ours would be a baby girl, which was repeatedly validated in subsequent dreams of the father-in-waiting. The excitement levels of having a baby girl reaches its zenith when shopping spree was done and elaborate arrangements including names were zeroed in for her. Besides, the papa-in-waiting would proudly prove a point or two to his traditionalist colleagues that a baby girl is as much treasured as a baby boy and they are on equal footing. When the anxiously awaited D-day arrived two days in advance, the midwife, while rushing the newly born to the nursery unit, naughtily reveal the stunning truth leaving us momentarily numb and speechless. Lo! It was a baby boy and awfully no plan B was in place to tackle such anti-climax ending, thanks to scientific methodology!
Then with political overtone, the question arises as to which side the baby resembles or to put it differently, whose gene is the dominant one: the father or the mother. From a male chauvinistic viewpoint, it is almost natural to assume that the baby boy should replicate his father gene and that any resemblance of the mother side should be at best negligible, if not erroneous. Delightfully, the tension was diffused with the masterstroke of the Master Crafter who has intricately crafted him by perfectly blending the genes with a little bit of the father and mother reflecting harmoniously on his innocent face.
It is exhilarating that social bonding and friendship are cemented and reinforced by the birth of one’s child. Expectedly, the phone had not stopped ringing since his birth and lots of congratulatory messages were poured in sharing our joyous moment of life. What stumps me, however, was a congratulatory message which read like this: “Congratulation! Hope and pray that your son will be taller than you and his mom.” Honestly, I want him to be physically taller and handsome shunting out all the physical imperfections of his dad but will he be taller in life? Will he be a legend? Will he be a man of eminence and bring laurel to his family and society or be a liability? Will he be morally upright? Will he be fearful of God? Will he have strong character imbibing universal values? Will he be a little more compassionate and less unmerciful? Will he care a little more about his people but less chauvinist? Will he be a little more peaceful and less violent? Will he be little more environments friendly and less exploitative? Will he be little kinder and less cruel? Will he be little more understanding and less quarrelsome? Will he be a little wiser and less hypocrite? Will he be little more generous and less greedy? Will he be a little more merciful and less unforgiving? Will he be a little more loving and less hateful? Will he be more optimist and confident but less pessimist? Will he be more accommodating and less arrogant? Will he be a part of the solution or part of the problem? Will his future be secured?
In troubled times, these are definitely few worrisome questions, which time will answer but more crucially, my tasks as a dad have been cut out frightfully. With his birth, I have realized that my long awaited future is at hand and now I have to shape the future of my succeeding generation. Importantly, his fate and hope now entirely depends on my action. I have to be a hero to my son and a trouble shooter to all his agony assuring my presence in his ups and downs of life. Ultimately, my success as a dad will be measured not by how much I can pamper him but on how I build his character based on the above uncomforting questions. Painfully, I need to re-positioned my core values and examined where I stand to ensure that I don’t turn out to be a preaching papa but one who live by example and practice what he preached. This is certainly easier said than done and with all my imperfections, I sheepishly assured myself that I would be a g ood dad ready to start a fresh lease of life with my son by building our characters together.
For now, I just cuddled him tight to my chest and sing lullaby, concentrating on the present and cherishing every moment of being a dad. At long last, we have become a complete family: small but happy. This happiness is best expressed by the ceaseless singing of our baby sitter, who has lately turned into a professional bathroom singer, singing all the way to our hearts. Since Christmas Eve, she has not stopped singing the Shillong Chamber Choir’s bollywood masala after watching their live performance in a South Delhi shopping mall!
Undoubtedly, birth is the harbinger of hope heralding new beginning with comforting thought that at least our dream and legacy would continue with memorable footprints in the sand of time. To go to the bottom of the unfolding saga is, however, a long drawn process involving the interplay of complex variables enmeshed in an intricate web of relationship seemingly link with one’s destiny. To begin with is the process of metamorphosis from a carefree bachelorhood to a responsible fatherhood. With rosy dreams gliding on high expectations nurtured in colleges and universities, the idea of settling down, least of all having kids, was almost not in a scheme of consciousness. The misconception of bored parenthood with incessant crying kids driving them crazy was a huge put off then. Then came a stable job, which suddenly catapults you into that extraordinary league of ‘most eligible’ bachelors supposedly having high matrimonial value. In a society where one’s privacy is constantly being probed and must be explained to the satisfaction of all, I finally decided to take the plunge and cheerfully tied the knot without much fuss.
As the years go by with deliberately no issue, the constant probe on ‘good news’ by all and sundry literally takes the sheen out. In super fast pace of life, the necessity of adopting gradual and holistic approach for setting up a ‘happy home’ do not seem to exists in the lexicon of the modernist mindset. The matter had, therefore, to be taken up to the next logical conclusion. And so it happens on that fateful day of 28th November, 2010 when the stars were in perfect strategic alignment.
The drama unfolds when the doctors confirmed about the baby and the series of visits to the maternity hospital thereafter. The fatherly instinct was very nascent then but the discovery in the hospital during each eventful visit had made the male species sit down and take notice. If empowerment of women truly exists, then the concept is implemented in letter and spirit in a humble maternity hospital where women rule the roost. They were obviously the preferred customers and they alone have the power to decide their fate behind closed doors of female doctors. For a change, the male species appear to be rendered totally redundant and reduced to mere bag carriers of their privileged wives with anxiety writ large on their faces. Instinctively, the male ego in me decided to take the matter head on but each time was shown its place by empowered female security personnel.
In exasperation, the attentions were then shifted toward observation of various size and shapes of the bulging bellies of wives when they were anxiously standing in queue and by employing scientific methodology, quietly predicting the gender of babies safely ensconced in their mother wombs. This monumental study was based on two crucial scientific parameters: bulkier and irregular belly indicate a baby boy; and smaller and rounded belly indicate a baby girl. With this methodology conveniently in hand, it was summarily declared that ours would be a baby girl, which was repeatedly validated in subsequent dreams of the father-in-waiting. The excitement levels of having a baby girl reaches its zenith when shopping spree was done and elaborate arrangements including names were zeroed in for her. Besides, the papa-in-waiting would proudly prove a point or two to his traditionalist colleagues that a baby girl is as much treasured as a baby boy and they are on equal footing. When the anxiously awaited D-day arrived two days in advance, the midwife, while rushing the newly born to the nursery unit, naughtily reveal the stunning truth leaving us momentarily numb and speechless. Lo! It was a baby boy and awfully no plan B was in place to tackle such anti-climax ending, thanks to scientific methodology!
Then with political overtone, the question arises as to which side the baby resembles or to put it differently, whose gene is the dominant one: the father or the mother. From a male chauvinistic viewpoint, it is almost natural to assume that the baby boy should replicate his father gene and that any resemblance of the mother side should be at best negligible, if not erroneous. Delightfully, the tension was diffused with the masterstroke of the Master Crafter who has intricately crafted him by perfectly blending the genes with a little bit of the father and mother reflecting harmoniously on his innocent face.
It is exhilarating that social bonding and friendship are cemented and reinforced by the birth of one’s child. Expectedly, the phone had not stopped ringing since his birth and lots of congratulatory messages were poured in sharing our joyous moment of life. What stumps me, however, was a congratulatory message which read like this: “Congratulation! Hope and pray that your son will be taller than you and his mom.” Honestly, I want him to be physically taller and handsome shunting out all the physical imperfections of his dad but will he be taller in life? Will he be a legend? Will he be a man of eminence and bring laurel to his family and society or be a liability? Will he be morally upright? Will he be fearful of God? Will he have strong character imbibing universal values? Will he be a little more compassionate and less unmerciful? Will he care a little more about his people but less chauvinist? Will he be a little more peaceful and less violent? Will he be little more environments friendly and less exploitative? Will he be little kinder and less cruel? Will he be little more understanding and less quarrelsome? Will he be a little wiser and less hypocrite? Will he be little more generous and less greedy? Will he be a little more merciful and less unforgiving? Will he be a little more loving and less hateful? Will he be more optimist and confident but less pessimist? Will he be more accommodating and less arrogant? Will he be a part of the solution or part of the problem? Will his future be secured?
In troubled times, these are definitely few worrisome questions, which time will answer but more crucially, my tasks as a dad have been cut out frightfully. With his birth, I have realized that my long awaited future is at hand and now I have to shape the future of my succeeding generation. Importantly, his fate and hope now entirely depends on my action. I have to be a hero to my son and a trouble shooter to all his agony assuring my presence in his ups and downs of life. Ultimately, my success as a dad will be measured not by how much I can pamper him but on how I build his character based on the above uncomforting questions. Painfully, I need to re-positioned my core values and examined where I stand to ensure that I don’t turn out to be a preaching papa but one who live by example and practice what he preached. This is certainly easier said than done and with all my imperfections, I sheepishly assured myself that I would be a g ood dad ready to start a fresh lease of life with my son by building our characters together.
For now, I just cuddled him tight to my chest and sing lullaby, concentrating on the present and cherishing every moment of being a dad. At long last, we have become a complete family: small but happy. This happiness is best expressed by the ceaseless singing of our baby sitter, who has lately turned into a professional bathroom singer, singing all the way to our hearts. Since Christmas Eve, she has not stopped singing the Shillong Chamber Choir’s bollywood masala after watching their live performance in a South Delhi shopping mall!
74-C, CPWD COLONY
Vasant Vihar, New Delhi, 110057.
(Mailed me for any tips on being a good father at wilkayina@gmail. com)
