Another Rotten Day

Yesterday turned out to be a rotten day.

(No, it was not because of the usual water supply problem. That has been resolved. The Water Authority and the Minister for Water Resources have decided that my family can be ignored. We belong to the insignificant minority. It is such a relief when a case is closed so amicably.)

I received summons from my kids' school.

I had to meet the Principal (message on mobile said, "...to deal with a delicate matter...").

My better half wondered, "Is he (son, not Principal) the delicate matter? Or is she (daughter)?"

I asked her to come along for moral support. She gave the usual mother-talk about the eternal bond between mothers and kids, "I carried them for nine months...that is, eighteen months, mind you...you promised to bear everything thereafter." I am sure I am not daft to make a promise like that. But has anyone won a battle against that nine-month-mother-talk?

I took my time outside the Principal's office. Reels of déjà vu rolled, flashback in black-n-white and technicolor too.

"Ah yes, come in..." the Principal said. Four words, four swings of the paddle.

My son was already in his office, assigned to a corner. He looked like one in quarantine silently protesting his incarceration.

"Ah good sir, thank you for coming," the Principal said.

"Ah," I replied. The Principal frowned. He clearly had the patent on Ah.

"Ah!" he reclaimed possession. "Do you know why I had to call you?"

"Nah," I tried. He frowned again.

"He has spoiled the delicate fabric of this social community," the Principal announced.

"He?"

The Principal's squint-eyed stare made it clear that I was not to interrupt his judgement or execution.

He reached for a sheet of paper.

"Read this, good sir. Ah. This is what your son chose for the school's elocution competition. Ah. This poem by some unknown good-for-nothing."

I read it.

"You might know your mother
But never be too sure 
About your father."

I didn't have to read the rest.

I looked at my son. He returned a blank-eyed stare. Finally, I could understand the last scene in "The Omen" where the much-tortured Gregory Peck tries to kill his son Damien.

"Ah sir, now..."

I must have gone pale or looked terribly daft (the better half says that I am terribly good at it). I remember waking up from that reverie with the Principal looking down on me.

"Ah good sir. I thought we lost you there. Don't let this affect you so. Let us forget this whole matter."

"Nah," I said.

"Ah sir, I have decided. Say no more." The Principal told my son to go back to class. He dismissed me too.

Thus, I did not have to tell him that I am the unknown good-for-nothing. My son must have discovered my 'pome' among the boxes of old stuff. He has inherited that from my better half. She has this knack for finding my carefully hidden personal diaries. I tried to cure her once. On our first wedding anniversary, I noted in my diary, "She is such a pain." She found it. I had to endure two years of marriage counselling. I was cured of every desire to cure her.

Back to the 'pome'. I was very young when I wrote it. I had just discovered Philip Larkin's "This Be The Verse" and Allen Ginsberg's "Howl". My 'pome' was supposed to be a clarion call against patriarchy, caste-system and every other social ill that allowed some creeps to seem like well-endowed creeps.

Outside the Principal's office, my son tugged at my sleeve. "Great act, old man."

I whacked his head.

A lady-teacher appeared there out of thin air right then, made a clucking sound with her tongue or wherever.

My son scooted from the scene. I too tried. She blocked my way.

"Ah sir."

"Nah, naht agaaain." I howled internally.

"You are just the man I have been looking for."

When a woman says that, you can be sure the horror is about to begin soon.

"Sir, I have to talk to you about your daughter."

"She too, Bruteh!" my innards groaned. Why is it that teachers inspire stream of consciousness?

"Have you and your Mrs noticed that she has been acting differently lately?"

"It is a congenital condition," my brain noted.

"She seems so lost, so uncared for. She was such a good student. She is still good. But she seems lost."

"She gets that from moi. I too feel lost," I muttered silently.

"I asked her if her parents help her with her studies and other activities. She told me no."

"She told us to stay away," I wanted to say.

"I asked her if her parents make her feel secure with a promise of foreign education after school. She told me that you told her to get in somewhere good and cheap or be a home nurse and take care of her old parents. Surely, you did not say that."

"My parents told me that. Why can't I?" I wanted to cry about my deprived childhood.

"It seems you don't encourage her in any way. You don't even mention on social media about her success in studies or extracurricular activities."

"She promised to kill us if we did that." How could I tell that to a teacher?

"Ah. Please, sir. I have seen too many good kids end up badly. Please change your ways."

"Oh." I managed to say finally.