You probably don’t think of it as a baton, but it is. Because we are holding on to it, we are running the race, but eventually we have to hand it over to the next generation.
So yes, we are holding a baton and although we have to pass it on eventually, some of us cling on desperately and refuse to give it up, some of us let go reluctantly, an inch at a time, and some of us — arguably the luckiest — do so without knowing it, until suddenly one day we look down and it is no longer in our hands.
Looking back, do you remember how and when you took the baton from your parents? Were you asked to take over or did you make the decision unilaterally or did you have no choice in the matter and have it thrust upon you? And did it catch you by surprise or did it feel natural and effortless or was it a long and painful struggle on both sides? Most often, I guess, it is a little bit of each.
There were innumerable occasions in what we liked to think was our “practical, level-headed, gracefully growing old” family when one parent would refuse to sit back and would, quite literally, do more than his share of the heavy lifting around the house. It was a combination of natural impatience, disregard for his age and a firm belief that he still retained the strength and flexibility of his sturdy youth — and it inevitably led to flare-ups with his children and flare-ups of back pain for him.
At other times, usually when keeping up with the taxman or getting bank balances figured out, he was inclined towards a ‘hands-up, I-surrender, you-take-over’ attitude while we urged him to hold on.
We grew accustomed to these flip-flops and most often laughed over them, but now, as we head towards that same place our parents went, it seems that we too are experimenting with this balancing act when it comes to holding onto the baton.
So we make ambitious daily plans and set out to accomplish what we think is one person’s share of activity — and then find ourselves giving up midway. We tell ourselves it is the summer heat that is exhausting or we pretend that something more important has come up so that we can shelve those tasks without too much guilt.
Obviously we have conveniently forgotten all those homilies we spouted to others and to our child about burning the candle at both ends. (“Don’t bite off more than you can chew,” “Set your priorities, get the most important things done,” and so on.)
But he has not forgotten. And now, suddenly, we are at the receiving end of those same homilies and a whole lot of other instructions and advice.
Like, for instance, how to get from one place to another when we visit him in the UAE. Electronic “what’s-its” are whipped out and we are coached in their usage, step-by-step, most of which go over our heads and has to be repeated with growing impatience — similar to what used to happen long ago when he was being helped with his “homework” after school.
And then, when we stand like obedient kids at a mall, waiting to be picked up after a day of exploring, and sulk a bit because he is late, the way he did if we didn’t turn up at his school on time, we suddenly realise that the baton has been passed. We are no longer in the driver’s seat.
We are taken unawares, but we are not miserable. Neither do we feel unwanted and unloved: just happy that the baton is in the hands we had been striving to pass it to.
Cheryl Rao is a journalist based in India.
