The newborn baby looked gorgeous and delicate – like a piece of soft silk. I called her Bosky. Rakhee-ji found it a bit odd. However, ‘Bosky’ was happily accepted by the family. There was a fresh debate when we were planning a formal naming ceremony.
My eldest brother came up with Nishaat – a good name, I thought.
I suggested Sujan, my mother’s name. Perhaps, the near-unanimous verdict was that you can’t give your daughter her grandmother’s name.
Close relatives were keen to uphold the family tradition. Sujan was thus rejected. Rakhee-ji suggested Meghna, a river which flows through her native town in Bengal.
I liked the name as much for its cadence as also for the fact that Rakhee-ji wanted to revive her link with her birthplace. Rakhee-ji belongs to East Bengal, now Bangladesh, while Punjab is my birthplace, now Pakistan. We often joke that Bosky is the only Indian in the family!
Seeing a child grow up is a wonderful experience which no screenplay writer can dare to put on paper. A baby keeps playing with her mother’s pallu. Is it because she likes the weave of the pallu or its crimson colour? Who knows?
It was great to see Bosky take her first baby steps, mumble her first word. Dr Cama and Dr Gokhale, who heralded Bosky’s arrival into this world, taught me how to wrap a newborn baby. I realised it was an art as exquisite as a Mughal miniature painting, and required great skill and patience.
I learnt to change nappies. It’s heartwarming to hold a baby, close to your bosom. It oozes the sweet fragrance of life. While sharing the young one’s universe, where elephants fly and trees pirouette, parents re-live their own childhood.
Bosky was ready to start her school life. I took her to several schools in the neighbourhood, but she liked none. I had some free time as I was freelancing during those years.
One morning I took her to a school in Khar, a quiet Mumbai suburb. She instantly liked it, and began to play with children. Her teacher Pinky, a sprightly, young girl, walked up to me, greeted me, and said, ‘Sir, my father knows you.’ Pinky was the daughter of Pran Sahab, the legendary actor.
The Khar school was held under the roof of an idyllic bungalow. Classes were conducted on the turf. Bosky joined the school, and stepped into a new world. Later, I and Rakhee-ji got her into a proper school.
Times were a tad difficult as Rakhee-ji was busy with her films. She often had to go out of Mumbai for outdoor shoots. Jethi, a good soul, was appointed as Bosky’s nanny. She took good care of her for over a decade.
Bosky never needed a special tutor; she would study on her own. Neither I nor Rakhee-ji wanted her to be a topper. We gave her the space she needed; she was into sports, and acted in school plays too. I tip my hat to Ms Khariwala, the headmistress, who believed that a student’s natural instincts need to be honed.
I’ve never imposed my choices, ideas and biases on Bosky. She worked on her own goals; carved her own path. I was, of course, there to provide inputs, whenever necessary. It was she who chose her subjects for graduation.
Weaving Bosky’s hair into two plaits was a daunting task. I asked her if she could give me some tips. She would say, ‘Papa, you don’t know how to do it. You keep running the comb here and there.’ I would remember my childhood days, when my father used to do my hair, like a Sardar-ji.
I’ve written many poems on Bosky. Every year I would present a poetry book to her on her birthday. She was too young to read and understand literature, but she found the cover and sketches fascinating. I must say that I could write children’s books because of Bosky and her birthdays. I learnt a child’s language at different ages, how it changes.
It’s a tad difficult to write a book for kids. You have to keep reminding yourself that you are writing for young readers. I would tweak a folktale or a Panchatantra story. I wrote birthday books for Bosky for thirteen long years.
Actually, I came to know myself better while trying to understand Bosky. I learnt a lot from her. There was constant give and take between us. It is pointless to cast your child in your mould. A doctor’s daughter need not brandish a stethoscope; she can wear a lawyer’s white band if she so wishes.
I can recall how Rakhee-ji was keen that Bosky’s college should be close to our home. I promptly dismissed the suggestion. Let her choose her own college, even if it is away from home, adding, ‘You aren’t going to sit with her in the classroom.
We would drop her to school by car, but such occasions were few and far between. Like millions of Mumbaikars, Bosky would travel by local train with her friend to St Xavier’s College in south Mumbai.
Parents need not hover over their children like a noisy helicopter. Their generation can meet the world with confidence – and on its own terms. They choose their friends, and if trust deepens, they consult them on matters of mutual interest.
Bosky was keen to learn swimming. I taught her how to get under the skin of the water.
While I was around to allay Bosky’s doubts, I never meddled with her studies or daily regimen. Once in a while, she would look grumpy and sullen. Teenaged children have their own priorities, pressures and pangs. As they are on a crossroad, they need to be handled with care. Parents too face an acid test during those crucial years.
You can’t pacify a sixteen-year-old rebel with a toy train. A poem may help, perhaps:
Bosky is miffed with me, I suppose
A part of the body is quietly quiet,
Feet look swollen
And the way she looks, thinks – like the eye of a whirlpool,
She is staring
Bosky, a piece of sun,
Mingles in my blood, day and night;
Does she know that when she is angry
The blood in my vein stops running
Will she ever know?
Excerpted with permission from Dhoop Aane Do – Pages Plucked From Memories, translated from the Marathi by Ambarish Mishra, Amaryllis.
