Life's Longing For Itself

Kahlil Gibran, in The Prophet, writes about children: "They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself..."

In the womb-like darkness at the edge of the Marina Beach, sand particles tickle my bare feet. The night breeze flirts with my amorous dense, dark, wavy hair while the sea-song caresses my soul. A monstrous wave, now and then, threatens to drag me deep into the sea and am thrilled. But all it does is drench me till my waist, leaving me and my jeans all wet and cold. It was April, 2006. Or perhaps March.

Satiated, as I drag my leaden feet towards the wet-dry shore, the same breeze carries Tamil words with it, along with a stinking smell of fried fish. I see a lil girl, probably six years old, asking questions about me, and her father answering as if he knew me well. Reality and imagination vie to provide answers. The girl whispers: "What language is she speaking?" Her father says: "Hindi. She's not Tamil." And I smile at the wrong answer. When the girl asks: " Won't her parents scold her for being alone here?", he says: "But she has already told them. Didn't you see her talking on the phone now?" Another question: "Appa, don't you think she will catch cold. Her jeans are wet..." is answered by her father: "No, she won't. She's not a kid like you to fall ill frequently. She's strong. As you grow up, you know what's right and wrong...If she were to catch a cold and fall sick, she wouldn't be wetting herself in the waters..." Am still interesting to the kid as she asks: " Can't I go out into the sea alone like her?" Her father smiles: "Of course..When you are old like that elder sister, I will let you walk into the waters and you can stay as long as you like..."

The girl's eyes caught mine and I smiled. She stood before me, staring. I asked in English: "Hello! What's your name?" She ran to her father who asked her to reveal her name. She shyly refused. Her father turned to me and murmured a name which I soon forgot, along with their faces. Perhaps, if I had asked her in Tamil, she would have warmed up to me and prattled merrily. But I didn't want to embarrass the father by revealing I knew Tamil as he would realise I had eavesdropped on their conversation. And besides, as I sat staring at the dark forms ahead, I wanted to hear the father-daughter dialogue :) A part of me wanted to converse with her. I wondered about the missing mother - may be she was dead or only temporarily absent from their lives. To me, the family seemed incomplete without the mother and I hoped all was well. It seemed cruel of life to allow a young man carry the burden of bringing up a daughter alone...

The sea, the night, the sky, the moon, the sea shells on the beach - all of them came under her intense scrutiny. Her father indulged her curiosity with a patience and understanding that was charming. Her questions were not dismissed as being inane or childish; at least, if he thought so, he never betrayed it. When a question failed him, he invented the answer. She asked about the use of a sea thorn to which her father said it was used by mermaids as hair pins. I smiled.

And suddenly, I remembered how a few years ago, my lil cousin shot questions one after the other at me when she came to visit us in Cal : "Maini, who is that?" "Maini, why does..?" "Maini, where did it..?" 'Maini' in Tamil means father's sister's daughter; she was my uncle's only daughter. I answered a few with an arrogant indulgence as if I was doing a favour. Soon, my nerves reached their breaking point and I snapped at her in English : "Why the hell do you ask so many stupid questions? Why don't you go and play by yourself or annoy someone else? Leave me alone, Lil Miss Pesky!" Hurt and shock marred her sweet face as she quietly left the room. I felt bad but never said sorry.

Minutes later, I saw her sitting on Dad's lap asking questions like crazy and he was laughing and playfully answering them. They were also playing a game with the remote. Suddenly, he would press the mute button and say: "When I press mute, you become mute!" So when he pressed the button, my cousin would stop midway - the question would die a silent death and she would be staring at him with her lil mouth open :) He would then press the button and tell her to continue. The question would be revived and he would answer and suddenly, my cousin would snatch the remote from him, press the button and scream: "Mute!" and Dad would stop midway! Everyone was laughing and I smiled.

As waves rose and fell, as the chill became more pronounced, I thought how Dad has always suffered me gladly :) Mom knew only one way of handling my troublesome questions - "Why dont you sit quietly and read a book? Can't you see what I am doing?!" At that instant, something struck me. I saw everything clearly in the night. I decided that the next time a kid asks questions, no matter how silly they are, I will answer each one of them. If I didn't know the answer, I would invent one. What's Imagination for? :)

I see the girl and her father, rubbing off the sand that clings to them. They walk away, the girl still inquisitive and I decide I must return to the hostel too. For that girl, the universe is rich with mysteries and questions are her way of making sense of the confusion that clouds her nascent understanding. In her, life is born once again as she goes through the agony and ecstasy of existence. Another parent-child relationship is taking root; another father-daughter bond is flowering; another soul is taking its first cautious steps on the ladder of life; another generation is being initiated into the ways of living. And I walk into the city lights, richer...