A couple of weeks ago, I bought some play dough for my 4 year-old. He was thrilled, his imagination ran wild and he started making an eagle,a motor bike a mixie all as he saw them, so the eagle was just a huge staright line of dough with a protruding speck for the eagle's head. As he played with it, I recalled how expensive and rare dough was when I was a child. It was called China clay then. If there was one thing that my sister and longed for as play item it was china clay. Only one cousin of ours in the whole wide extended family could have it. He was an only child and his parents beleived in making the best things available to him. He was good at making moulds with the china clay. I clearly remember him making a radio, a hut and a car with it. He would share the china clay with my sister and I but he was ridiculously paticular about how we handle it. Most often I was just happy to watch him make shapes and models out of it. Thoughts of china clay brought many other memories about the same boy. He was a talented guitarist and was simple amazing with the bongos, but I never heard him sing or hum to himself, I never saw him close his eyes and loose himself in the tune of a song.
Those were the days when USSR was a mystery to many and the Sputnik and Misha were two magazines that seemed to let you peep a little into that mystery. No one I knew, except the china clay boy, had subscribed for Misha the Children's magazine from USSR. I loved to visit his house during summer vacation, for I would get to read all the issues for the previous year. China clay boy however did not seem excited about Misha and its contents. Not once did he hand me an issue and say 'Hannah this story in this issue is very good' . To me the learning of new words is an unexplainable thrill, he never turned my attention to the several he may have learned from his priceless books.
One cannot remember the time when Herge's Adventures of Tintin were inexpensive in India. Till date one needs to pay through ones nose to buy a copy. The Week, a weekly would carry a page of Tintin in every issue, I would beg and plead with my uncles to buy The Week just to read the Tintin. But boy!, the china clay boy's house was full of them. I fell in love with Captain Haddock, admired Tintin, adored snowy, laughed at the detective twins and marvelled at Prof. calculus all in the couch of his house. Sadly the boy himself never shared with me his joy of reading Tintin. Who was his favourite character, did he secretly cry out 'Blistering blue barnacles' like me. I never knew.
China boy died an untimely death, his parents were shattered. As I walked in to their house that day, they wept and asked ' You look for meaning and try to explain everything around you Hannah, give us an explanation for this sorrow'. Tears fail me when I need them most. I just stood there motionless and let them cry on my shoulders. Why would one with such a wide range of exposure in early childhood, shun adult life? Why would one so talented and gifted find no meaning in living? Why would one who received so much love be so devoid of hope. Despite spending dozens of summer vacationa at his house he never played with us, never laughed out loud, never shared experiences. In short he never became a friend.
May be it is not so important to give the best to your children or love them with all your heart as it is to teach them to love themselves and many many others with thier short comings. May be, as an individual it is not so important to be talented and gifted than it is to use the little that we are given, to plant a smile on another face. No amount of love, talents, books or music can make life meaningful unless you let it touch your soul.
