Vinita Dawra Nangia
As the stranger sat looking adoringly at his baby in a pram, he was  unaware of the many thoughts that ran through the watching columnist's head.  Would this child one day return in equal measure the adoration he received from  his father today?
We sat in a restaurant in Delhi's bustling Connaught Place, people-gazing as  we waited for lunch to be served. CP always has an eclectic mix of visitors,  each more interesting a study than the last. Very unlike malls that are teeming  with similar looking boys and girls dressed like exact clones of each other,  price tags almost visible in the premium brand haze they create around  themselves.
It was nudging on 4 pm, quite late as lunch time goes, but that didn't stop  groups from straggling in and ordering booze. Each table had more bottles of  beer than number of people at it. Surprising, for this was no seedy joint. We  understood why when we realised the restaurant announced Happy Hours to entice  clientele during hours in between meals. Not that we minded, interested as we  were in observing those around us and trying to guess at their relationships and  stories. We got more grist for the mill this way!
As we finished our meal, in walked a tall bearded guy with straw coloured  hair tied in a ponytail, pushing a pram. He adjusted the pram in a manner that  it faced him as he sat and ordered his beer. His gaze seldom shifted from the  baby sleeping peacefully in it. Once in a while he would reach out and pat the  baby adoringly, unnecessarily adjusting the blanket wrapped around it. It was an  adorable sight, one that only decency forced us to turn our eyes away from.
It was then that my usually reticent husband made a cryptic remark. "He is  looking at his son in the pram with such adoration. Thirty years hence the roles  will be reversed. He will be in a wheelchair as his son sits opposite guzzling  beer. Will the son then look at his father with as much fondness?" The answer  was such an obvious "No" that it cast a cloud on the pretty picture before  us.
You seldom see youngsters taking along an old father for a meal or a holiday  with as much enthusiasm and pleasure as the father would have taken them when  they were small. Many do it out of a sense of duty, but few with the pleasure  you would have when you take out a friend. May be this has to do with the fact  that parents, as they grow up, often find it difficult to make the transition  from parent to friend. As a result, most conversations take on the form of  lectures rather than discussions. But whatever the reason, it still is rather  sad that a son would not look at his father in a wheelchair as fondly as the  father did when the son was on his set of tiny four wheels! 
My mind swung back  to another restaurant at another time. We were in a cozy country inn in a  village on the outskirts of London with some friends. A fire crackled merrily,  reflecting on the smoothwith-age polished wood all around. At another table, sat  a man with an older version of himself. Both ordered the same dish and ate with  equal gusto and relish. Amusingly, some of their gestures mirrored each other  too. Conversation was at a bare minimum, but the bonhomie and comfort with each  other was palpable. Obviously a son, who had taken time off from family to take  his father out for a meal. Maybe it was even a regular once-a-month ritual, we  conjectured. A sight that gladdened the heart.
From here, my mind shifted, as minds often do, to a beauty parlour in Delhi.  As I gave in to some beauty indulgences there, a lady just beyond let out  intermittent giggles, apart from which she kept shouting instructions above the  din of a hairdryer being used on another lady. The giggles were because she was  ticklish, and each ministration on her foot caused laughter, much to the  consternation of the impassive guy applying himself to her pedicure! The  instructions were for the harassed hairdresser who was colouring the hair of an  older woman. With each snip of the scissor the ticklish lady would shout an  instruction on how the ultimate look should be. For the lady under the scissors  was the Ticklish One's mother. 
When Ma emerged, coiffed and sprayed, the  Ticklish One decided it was time to get Ma's nails done. Twisting and turning,  causing further trouble for the Impassive One, she kept focused on the  ministrations on her mother rather than herself. "Please be careful with her  nails, they are brittle," she shouted, followed by a giggle as Impassive One  punished her with a tickly foot rub.
"That's her mother," whispered my hairdresser, shaking her head. "Seldom have  I seen any daughter-in-law bringing her ma-in-law to the parlour. Only daughters  take such good care of their mothers!" Not being able to resist it, I shouted  out to the Ticklish One, "Tell me one thing, is the pedicure thrilling or  torturing you?" She peered at me through her glasses and said, "Well frankly, at  the moment it is a bit of a torture! I am too ticklish for this...." Smiling, I  replied, "Ah, so even laughter can cause pain..."
Despite the chaos Ticklish One caused at the parlour, I walked away with a  warm feeling because of the care she took of her mother. Years ago her mother  must have given similar instructions to another hairdresser as she cut a tiny  Ticklish One's hair!
And so maybe the infant in the pram will one day look fondly at the dad who  is doting on him now. Maybe he will take him out for a meal, a beer or a  haircut. Maybe he will read out to him or take him to a movie or for an evening  walk. Or maybe, he will burst crackers for him one day as the father watches at  Diwali, recalling how, years ago, his Dad had held his hands to light the first  crackers in his life, admonishing him to be careful.
There are so many ways to show he cares, so many ways he can adore and show  respect to the man who sits watching him in total adoration right now in a  restaurant in Connaught Place.
 

 
 
