Shifting roles — Of growing up and not letting go

An Altoids box full of tiny yellow iron pills. That’s what my mother left at my writing desk before leaving for Mumbai. She and my father were on a short visit to London and we’d spent the previous week bumming around the city. I wanted to show off all the places I had started to call my own, my East London ’hood, the several dozen Vietnamese joints, cocktail bars, museums (which stopped right after my mother declared she would shoot herself if she was made to step into another museum) and every other place I could think of.

I’ve always lived in the same city as them, so the visits to my apartment were restricted to the odd meal. It was always me going to theirs and being the prodigal lotus-eater. So this trip was a first, a novelty, a realisation of having grown up and caring ( I hope) in ways that they have always cared for me. It’s strange how, as you grow older, the equation between your parents and you changes, but at the same time remains the same. I now make it a point to hold my mother’s arm when we’re crossing a road, and walk one step ahead of her while doing that, because in case a car decides to run us down, I will get hit first and thereby save her. I also tell myself that work can wait, that if there’s one thing more important than work, it’s these guys. For someone who has different days assigned to stressing about different subjects, this is a big deal. But while growing up, my parents were never too busy for me and my brother. Promises were kept, road trips were had and childhood was fun. Ideals like that get propagated and I feel might eventually save the world.

At 35, I do feel like my own person. I’m pretty certain I have no idea where I’m headed or what the larger meaning of life is, but I like where I am and I’m definitely less rabid than I used to be. So I can step back and say that I (somewhat) feel like an adult (sometimes). That week my parents were here, I took charge of the itinerary; plays, dinners, walks and exhibits. For every Alexander McQueen exhibit for my mother there was an RAF museum excursion for my father. Beer vs wine, lamb chops vs sushi, and experimental theater vs classic plays were all being gently balanced in my head (and my planner). I thought I’d nailed it. That this was it and I was legit responsible. I had ached to morph from the angst ridden girl they were so used to so all my energy was being poured into this week. And as much as I expected some sort of disaster from it all, nothing untoward happened. No one fought, things remained cool and I was astounded. This was turning into one of those Hallmark holiday cards and maybe that was cause for worry.

Suddenly things were working better in my apartment. The door hinges that were loose were working fine, the curtains that hadn’t been folded up were suddenly folded up and ironed (my mother, ever the handyman), I had a hair dryer after living without one for two years (don’t ask), and after the first few attempts of Michael (my husband) and me trying to pay for meals, my father gave us a look and said “Enough!” to shut us up. And finally, there was that box of Altoids with iron pills in it. That just did something funny in my ribcage. Had she carried it all the way from Mumbai for me? Were they hers? Did she think about it when she was here? I didn’t want to ask her. In fact I didn’t even reply in the affirmative when she asked me if I’d eat one everyday. I didn’t want to go back to being a kid and taking orders. At least not obviously. But I did obsess about that damn tin, and I’ve been popping those tiny pills every day.

When they left, I moped for two days. The house felt empty and, despite trying hard to not say this to them, I did. And suddenly them saying the same phrase to me over the years made sense. I used to brush it aside because I assumed everybody had routine to get back to, routine that they secretly enjoyed in their own space. Clearly, I had assumed wrong, but it’s never felt this good to stand corrected.

I’ve always lived in the same city as them, so the visits to my apartment were restricted to the odd meal. It was always me going to theirs and being the prodigal lotus-eater. So this trip was a first, a novelty, a realisation of having grown up and caring (I hope) in ways that they have always cared for me. It’s strange how, as you grow older, the equation between your parents and you changes, but at the same time remains the same.

Juhi Pande has been travelling and collecting stories her whole life. She likes mathematics, chewing on bits of plastic and Björk. Her point of view is a patchwork of odd perspectives, naiveté and (occasionally) insight.