Painting competition? No, thanks.

(Hindustan Times, 28 April 1983)

That is what I said to myself last year when I saw my son in tears, having failed to locate me for quite some time after the competition. So, when the announcement of the international painting competition was made recently, I kept it away from my son. But the news did not fail to hit the headlines of his school bulletin board, and he came home blushing with enthusiasm at the prospect of participation. I was not totally unprepared for such a contingency.

"I shall take you to the Gandhi picture, instead." I suggested to him. He refused flatly. "All right, I shall buy you ice-cream, your cough nothwithsanding. How do you like that" I asked him switching over to his favourite eatables. It did not sell either. "Well, I am prepared to revive the subscription to Champak, Tinkle, and other magazines' (I had stopped them pending his annual examination). But that too did not click. Finally, after making a few more offers, warranting greater financial outlay, I gave in - as usual.

Since my parental prestige would be at stake at such an abject surrender, I had stipulated two conditions and sought agreement of both of them (yes, the younger son had also got interested in it by then): that I won't buy them anything to eat whatsoever, on the way: and they would have to manage the show with their incomplete sets of colour boxes.

The arrangement at the competition was that the participating children were taken to an enclosure where parents had no access.

So, having let loose my sons into the areana, my next worry to locate them and keep a constant watch over them (so that I did not reeat last year's tearful performance). After fifteen minutes of frantic search, during which period all the hitherto reported kidnappings and other related incidents converged upon my mind, I spotted them. I said to myself that along with the On the Spot Painting Competition for the children, the organizers should have held a 'Spot Your Child' competition for the parents.

Soon the competition was in full swing. Secret messages in Hindi, Punjabi, Bengali, Tamil and even French were being passed on to children by parents from outside the fence. "Madhabi, draw the kite small the boy big, and not vice versa.', said one mother. 'Sonu, if you want you can draw a jhoola, a see-saw and other things in the park,' suggested a sophisticated lady seeing her son draw a lifeless park. "Paint the sky blue, Unni, not yellow" said another.

At the end of the function, I took safe custody of my children and headed towards home - my sons merrily licking ice-cream and I carrying their next-in-line eatables, in one hand and, in the other, the new colour boxes, card board that I had bought for them earlier outside the venue of the competition. As we walked, my elder elder son said, "Papa, thank you for all these and for promising to revive the subscription. As for the Gandhi film, please don't bother Papa, our school is arranging the show for all of us."

An old Malayalam saying came to my mind: "Eaittu edukkan pol, eraitta pettu" (the lady who went to terminate her pregnancy, returned with twins).