Protective motherhood

THE crying Class II boy wailing ``mama, mama'', ran homewards. To his shock, the door was locked. The boy had a really bad day at school. His teacher had given him a sound knocking on his knuckles with the wooden duster, for not doing his homework on time. With the pain lingering, he went home in expectation of receiving consolation from his mother. He didn't even dry the tears from his eyes, lest their absence tone down the sympathies of his loving mum. He began visualising a very dramatic scene: his mother patiently listening to the pains that her small boy had suffered. 

But all turned to naught on seeing a large lock at his door. Feeling a further insult to his injury, he started marching up and down the verandah of his house. Just then his neighbour, dropped in and invited him to her place. Refusing her hospitality, he took the key of his house from her and dashed inside. He closed the door with a bang, loud enough for all his neighbours to hear.

The world had left him alone in his moment of agony and he decided to turn into an ``angry young boy''. With his shoes on, he paced up and down the floor of his drawing room. The carpet was dirtied and the floors got covered with mud. Was it enough? No. He threw down his school bag, scattering books everywhere. Then some more mischief entered his mind, for he knew that his dad would not be a witness to this scene of disorder. He was out of station on a tour.

Thoroughly tired and satisfied with the havoc that his anger had wrought, and still with his shoes on, he went to bed. He knew that he had done enough to make his mother angry enough to realise how he had been maltreated at school.

On waking he found himself nestled in the lap of his mother having forgotten about the displeasure he had caused her. He realised many years later that the beating he got from his teacher had roused his feelings but it was his poor mother who patiently bore the brunt of his anger.

The mother’s response was mature because if she had yelled or beaten her son rather than explain him on the situation, it would have further enfeebled the boy. Isn't this a case of classic irony that fate plays on us all as we proceed through life's branching ways?