“Why is it so profoundly satisfying to lose one’s identity to one’s sons?”, I asked Soumya one sunny afternoon as we took a stroll down West Park.” I feel so good every time someone stops and praises Timmy or Tot and asks us if ‘we are Timmy and Tot’s parents?’, don’t you find this strange or do you feel the same way?”

“Strange? Not at all Manjula, I feel much the same way. Life flows in a continuum. A new generation always out seats the former – much like what is modern and new today becomes staid and boring tomorrow! This is life’s way to ensure that we willingly and gracefully give way to the future.”

Our two boys had been growing up right in front of our eyes. And despite our best efforts to provide them with a ‘similar set of inputs’ in terms of food, emotional support at home, space, choice of school, books, toys, outings and pass-times, the two were growing up to be two very different individuals. Tim – formally known as Sushanto – was a charmer, an outgoing lady-killer who had bright eyes, a glib tongue, a mop of unruly hair and a dimple when he smiled. He was also showing strong signs of academic brilliance and his teachers at school were full of praise for his diligence and quick wit. Tim was also very clear that he would grow up to become an engineer like his father, which gave him the license to open up and destroy almost everything he could lay his hands on, since he wanted to know how it worked.

He was also very clear that he when he grew up he would own the big house down the road where he would stay alone with his wife and children. As for us, we could fend for ourselves!

Tot – Sumanto, that is – on the other hand was quieter and less outgoing. Awestruck in part by his brother’s exhuberance, he found respite in music, in animals, in team games and yes, extra-curricular activities that allowed him to express himself in his own special way. There was no doubt that he was exceedingly bright – he was promoted twice out of turn since the school authorities were sure his IQ levels were far above his peers – but he was bright in a controlled sort of way. Naturally, when we were summoned one afternoon to an assembly at the Bingley Junior School, we hardly expected what we saw and heard. Little Tot actually led the School Choir! This, we later got to know from his teachers, had been the practice for the past year. “Why hasn’t he told you?”, she asked. All we could do was hemm and haw. We later got to know that he forgot to share that little detail with us, primarily because it came to him so naturally. It wasn’t something to needlessly talk about.

As the boys grew up, we found we had suddenly gained a new identity: “This is Sumanto and Sushanto’s parents..” or “Hello Tim and Tot’s mama!” or “Hi dear, guess who these are, Tim and Tot’s parents, aren’t they a spitting image of their sons?”

I always found the last one slightly confusing. We, the replica of our sons? Wasn’t it supposed to be the other way around? Well, we didn’t really mind, but it brought a smile to our lips every time we heard an excited parent on the street introduce us as such.

Suddenly we had a new engaged social life to take care of. One peppered with aunt’s and uncle’s. With nieces and nephews. With friends and acquaintances from school, from Sunday School, from the Choir, from the football team, from the neighbourhood… And what followed were a stream of birthday parties, Christmas parties, presents, balloons, farewell dos and sleepovers. I seem to have become quite the full-time chaperone, whose sole purpose in life was to collect the boys from one place and drop them off at another – at times to two different places, before having to collect them all over again. But I didn’t complain. The tediousness of these chores disappeared every-time I saw a cheerful smile light up their faces when they saw me waiting for them.

Since Soumya was at work through much of this, our weekends were filled up with outings as he tried his best to make up for all the lost time. I remember a conversation we had had fairly early on in our marriage about this.

“Soumya”, I had asked, “do you realize that the way you work that you are going to miss out on so much of our son’s childhood? Tim’s first smile, his first words, his first steps, his first crush, his first football match, everything?”

“I know, but I don’t have a choice, do I?”, he brooded as a darkness suddenly crept over his face. “The pressures at Woden are only increasing. Close to a hundred people were laid off last week as a result of the industrial slump. With the way the economy is going, I am fairly sure that this won’t be the last time people are exited either. I need you to be my eyes and ears and tell me everything you see and find fascinating about them growing up. I need to continue to put my head down and see us through this storm”.

It was moments like these that made us yearn for home. The security of our country. The safety in numbers. The surety of our families. Of our erstwhile way of life.

One of the biggest debates we had with many of our friends was whether we ought to teach Bengali – our mother tongue – to our children as they grew up. “Bengali, their mother tongue?” Rathin had asked one afternoon as he stood with his back to the fireplace.” What, do you want them to be Indian? Face facts sweetheart, your children are British. Their mother tongue is English. Bengali is a thing of the past. Don’t let your hangover with the past become an albatross that you pass on to them!”

We thought otherwise.

Bengali, unlike many of our friends, was the language we spoke at home between ourselves since we were married. We didn’t intend to stop now.

But then help often comes in from the most unexpected quarters. In this case, from the good Dr Goodburn, my sons’ paediatrician.

“Now don’t get me wrong”, she had started one afternoon choosing her words carefully and watching our faces closely for the slightest indication that she was crossing the line of propriety, “your children are no doubt British and I, for one, am extremely glad that they are, otherwise, how would we have met? But let them not forget their roots, their language, who they really are. I still speak my native Celtic dialect as well as I do the Queen’s English. It gives me a sense of identity, of belonging that I hold very dear. Teach them your language as well. English will come naturally to them. Your language won’t, since they will hardly hear it around them as they grow up.”

“And don’t worry about them growing up confused”, she tried to reassure us, “a child can learn up to five languages simultaneously till the age of six. If you don’t do this now, it will be too late and you will never forgive yourselves.”

We made sure that we didn’t have reason to. And while, they did speak the language with errors in syntax, grammar and with the most violent cockney accent that you can imagine, the fact is that they grew up knowing that Bengali was very much a part of their being. Would this hold them in good stead when they prepared to step into the limelight? Only time would tell. But for the moment we were happy.

Soumya and I beamed as the gathering stood up and applauded our young boys, who dressed in starched white dhotis and kurtas, had just finished singing their first-ever Bengali song. The evergreen ‘Dhitang Dhitang Bole‘ had once again proved to be a hit. They had instantly gained many fans. And we even more recognition as their parents.

Image courtesy: cbcs from sxc.hu