There was a time when children of the 1960s had very few Days to celebrate in our country. We belonged to what is now fashionably called Generation Jones, though in those days we were simply children with scraped knees and dusty shorts.
Our calendar was uncluttered. We had Independence Day, Republic Day, Teachers’ Day and Children’s Day. That was about it.
We knew the dates by heart. There was no need for reminders on telephones that did not exist. We prepared well in advance. White canvas shoes were whitened with chalk polish, tricolour flags were bought, speeches rehearsed and patriotic songs sung with gusto.
National days meant sports competitions, march-pasts, sack races and, if one was lucky, a sweet or two from the school management. Teachers’ Day gave us the annual opportunity to honour our teachers, deliver flowery speeches and, for a brief while, feel grown up.
A day for everyone and everything
Fast forward a few decades, and every sunrise seems to come attached with a designated Day.
There is International Yoga Day, World Health Day, Earth Day, AIDS Day, Doctors’ Day, Literacy Day, Friendship Day and several others. Then come the gastronomic observances – Pizza Day, Burger Day, Biryani Day, and, for all one knows, there may soon be an International Day for Leftover Sambar.
The list grows longer every year. One suspects that somewhere there is a committee working overtime to ensure no object, profession, emotion or edible item feels neglected.
Love without a calendar
As children, we loved our parents unconditionally because they loved us unconditionally. We did not require a special day to remind us to express affection to our mother or father.
Yet these imported observances quietly became part of our culture. They bring joy to those in whose honour they are celebrated and there is nothing wrong with that.
There is, however, one danger. Forgetting a birthday is survivable. Forgetting an anniversary can be hazardous. But overlooking certain modern Days, especially those involving one’s spouse, can be positively perilous.
A mysterious Father’s Day parcel
Early yesterday morning, a deliveryman called me on my phone, rudely interrupting my sleep.
As someone who seldom orders anything online, I wondered what earthly object had arrived at such an ungodly hour.
The person handed me a brown paper bag. When I asked who had sent it, he merely shrugged and pointed to the address label which simply said: ‘Dad’.
Inside was a cordless massager, an insulated tall drinking cup with a digital temperature display and a Father’s Day greeting card. There was not a single clue about the sender.
A little later, my younger son called from Melbourne, wished me on Father’s Day and casually asked whether I had received the gifts. Mystery solved.
Thatha receives another surprise
The surprises did not end there. Later in the day, my elder son, daughter-in-law and four-year-old granddaughter presented me with a neatly wrapped gift box covered in gold paper. Stuck on it was a scribbled white sheet proclaiming, ‘Happy Father’s Day Thatha’.
The little one had drawn two faces at the bottom of the page. One, apparently, was me. The identity of the other was obvious because it sported two ponytails.
Inside was an air fryer. Ironically, it was the very appliance my wife had wanted to buy for months. I had consistently vetoed the proposal.
‘Why do we need another kitchen gadget when we already have a microwave an oven and a toaster?’ I would argue with all the conviction of a finance minister defending budget cuts. It appears democracy finally prevailed.
Thoughtful gifts indeed
On reflection, these were remarkably thoughtful presents.
Perhaps my sons felt that advancing years warranted a massager to soothe ageing muscles and an occasionally rebellious back. The air fryer may have been a subtle hint that healthier cooking, involving less oil, effort and time, would not be a bad idea.
The temperature-display cup was equally thoughtful. Since I consume black tea several times a day, I can now scientifically determine whether the beverage is hot enough to enjoy and not hot enough to burn my lips and tongue.
Thoughtful, I say, because experience has taught my sons that clothing is a risky gift for me. The shirts and trousers they buy rarely fit as well as those stitched by my trusted tailors. No, they are not from Savile Row. If the wealthy can call their custom-made clothes bespoke, so can I.
My shirts may not come from Savile Row. Yet they are bespoke all the same – proudly stitched in Hyderabad, and fitting infinitely better than filial affection converted into ready-made apparel.
Very well narrated with a wit or two here and there. Enjoyed the piece.