Heart of the matter

right in the middle

When he told me he was a terrorist, I couldn’t believe my ears. His face certainly didn’t look terrorising, but then, what is the face of a terrorist? I opined that he had been miscast in the dance-drama to be performed on the annual school day, as a tribute to the armed forces.

Highly offended and declaring that he would make a ‘damn good terrorist,’ my son walked away angrily. Okay, so mine wasn’t the right response. Or had something happened in all these years that playing terrorist had become so appealing?

After all, this was the child who refused to hit back at a bully at play school, despite his father’s repeated assurances that any retaliation was perfectly justified. The small round face he had raised was resolute as he stood his ground and declined the permission to defend himself. Sometime later, when suggested that he train in some form of martial arts, he said that he didn’t want to hurt his friends even in a mock fight. And yet, Bruce Lee was highly appreciated.

Hmm, there were the movies on TV. The ones that had bloody fights, the war movies, the fantasy movies and even cartoons that actually have so much violence in them. I am the censor board, but sometimes the liberal father says “Let him watch, it’ll toughen him a bit.” Had the toughening gotten so much that it was a badge of honour to be the baddie?

Inevitably, everything that was said and done jarred on my heightened awareness to the new possibility. “Thrashing the daylights out of people,” “smashing them to pulp,” “pulverising them” — phrases that I might have used took on an awfully sinister meaning.

Had I missed something? Where had I gone wrong? Annual day came and went. The dance-drama was a success and everyone was pleased. I was happy enough at the event, but there was a niggling doubt about where things were headed.

Then the other day, father and son set out to clear the window awnings. The mess made by the pigeons had to be cleaned before the pre-monsoon showers. After a while, a loud altercation erupted followed by an urgent summons from the back of the house.

I found the livid father roaring out to throw the whole lot away while the son, kneeling on the awning, looked down at me beseechingly. Climbing up the ladder, I saw an untidy nest with two tiny fledglings. “Look at them, Amma, they’re so small, so frightened that they’re shivering. How can I throw them away?”

The penny dropped. I promptly told him to push back the nest with the assurance that it could be cleared once they flew out after a few weeks. Mentally, I wondered at the laxity of the neighbourhood cats. Later, after everybody had washed up, I was told that we were bringing up “a softie who needed his head examined.” That’s okay by me; at least, the heart is in the right place!