Our friends’ parents

Let’s face it, the minute our sires said “now you listen to me, young lady…” our ears went into shutdown mode. It was an automatic reflex brought on by years of practice. We knew repetition was the order of the day since our fathers thought very little of our retentive powers.

But let a classmate’s father say anything to us and we were all ears. The modern ways of treating parents as equals had not dawned and conversations with them were one sided since our opinions weren’t called upon. Hearken to this...

“So my dear, what was your position in class last week?” Indi’s father would ask me, kindly.

Bishop’s College had this terrible habit of reading out class positions once a week at school assembly so there was no room to lie.

“Somewhere in the middle, Uncle.” His right to question me was never debated. It was not a reply by which Justice Goonetilake was fooled.

“On which side of the middle?” His geniality had lessened considerably.

My father had his own approach...

“Now tell me Indi, how many hours do you spend on your homework?”

That wasn’t a question that had an answer. Study times fluctuated wildly depending on how much Indi could evade or rush through. She wasn’t intimidated.

“Quite a lot, Uncle. See how thick my spectacle lenses are? Eyestrain!”

“Hmm…” went Father. He was not fooled either. A paternal chat was on the cards because our parents cooperated in unison.

All fathers retained a kindly approach to their children’s friends but it was noticeably lacking when they dealt with their own offspring.

Father viewed my single party dress one day and announced that it was time I wore a sari to attend the next wedding. Though I was only 14, I was rather tall. I was all aflutter and it didn’t occur to me to ask when, where or who was going to activate the whole process of grownup attire.

I was taken to Chandiram’s, which was the most popular shop at that time.

Mr. Chandiram (also distantly related) was all smiles. “So our girl is ready to grow up?” he beamed. ‘Our girl’ was only concerned with what he was going to recommend sari-wise.

“Can I have an Indian silk, Daddy?” “Certainly not! Little girls don’t wear heavy silks.”

“But I’m not a little girl, Daddy.”

“You are as far as silks go.”

Two men decided on what sari I should wear. Appealing to Mother was not on the cards. She was American and left sari buying to others.

“Can you imagine, I have to wear yellow chiffon and gold jewellery,” I told my friend Indi.

Indi’s father was listening. “Very suitable,” he decreed. I was happy because if he liked it, then so did I.

Similarly treated, Mr. Chandiram put Indi in blue chiffon. At the next wedding, Indi in her blue chiffon served the cake. My father beamed. “Took my advice and went to Chandiram’s, I see,” he told Mrs. Goonetilake.

“So pretty,” he told a delighted Indi who had, only the previous day lamented: “Aiyo, my father chose a baby blue sari. Can you imagine?”

Both Indi and I were accoutered for the next year. No other saris were coming our way at least until the third wedding had been attended.

Such were the norms...

Friends’ parents were as involved as our own and didn’t hesitate to point us in their direction on schoolwork, clothes, cooking classes, art classes, piano classes and so on. We listened to what other parents decreed without a murmur. Anticipating opposition, my own mom would proclaim: “I really must ask Lolita (Mo’s mom) to speak to you.”

It went without saying that Aunt Lolita’s advice would be heeded.