My old man didn't teach me much. He tried, of course, giving me the usual life lessons on honesty and hard work but it fell on deaf ears. He gave up after while, prefering to utilize what I think of as the Show-Me-The-Way approach. He would involve me in doing something, hoping I would learn a thing or two about planning and about doing the necessary homework. It worked actually, much as I'd dislike admitting, that thing or two rubbed itself on me.
But there are two lessons that came from unexpected angles.
One was when, on power cut nights when we would walk the terrace, he told me about his college days. He said that every year, he would pick up sport - hockey, football and such, and learn it. He would make himself excel in it. But only up to a point that stopped short of making it to the college team. He feared, he said, that it would affect his studies. I didn't understand it then. See, I was good..no, I was awesome at running. But I was never allowed to participate in inter-school atheletic events. Intra-school, among the house teams on Sports Day? Yes. But anything else? District? Zone? No. I blame my parents second-most for my late maturity. If only I had experience outside competetition etc...Anyway, I never understood his weird concept, until this year, my final year (hopefully) of PhD. I am now unwilling to let any sport usurp my time for thesis. Everything has become a small part in the Life to Be Spent doing Thesis. They exist but inconsequently. His college was presumably that important to him, I suppose, as thesis is to me. This has led to appreciation, which is one step short of humility, if you think about it.
The second is this - my dad taught me to drum. When I was in my single digits, I watched my dad drumming rhytimically on the table. I asked him how he does that. He said, wait, it'll come. Sure enough, it did. And when it did, my father spend some time with me, trying to see if I could match his beats. On our dining table while we waited for dinner to be set by Ma. He would drum a rhythm, and wait to see if I could match his. This continued for many nights. I can table-drum and even keep rhythm using my feet, trying to match rock drummers. The only time I took on the bass drums was in college when I pitched in for a choir practice. I had only a vague idea, but I kept rhythm pretty well, using the heel-down, the tom and the hi-hat. I kept it good until the very last finish when I did the roll up mimicking the motions of the choir master that was supposed to lead up to a hit on the cymbal. Except I missed it completely. So it went bada - bada - boom - silence. No bish. The choir master frowned and I handed the sticks back to the main guy.
So now I just happily drum in my car on my steering wheel to the beats of 97.7 rock. I tap my foot and I think of Achan. As I ride to last stages of my Phd.
