Leaving on a Jet Plane

The author's daughter, ca. 1998. Photo: Ihtisham Kabir.

Now that my daughter has returned to the US for her studies after spending winter holiday at home, the thing that strikes me most is how my parents – particularly my mother – dealt with my absence when I, her firstborn, left home for higher studies at the age of sixteen. For me and my wife it was gut-wrenching to say goodbye to our daughter, but we knew that we would see her again in, say, six months. In my parents' case, however, the world was a vastly different place. It was not so easy to travel back and forth: when I left home my mother did not even know when she would see me again.

In reality it was two years before my parents saw me. Two years of insanely fast growth for me, when I learned to spread my wings and fly; two years of patient waiting for my parents when the only way they could touch me was through letters.

The world has become so much smaller. It took eight days for a letter to reach me in London from my parents in the mid-1970s, but today my children stay in touch instantaneously by electronic means. But has it made the separation any easier? For that matter, has it eased the growing up that children must go through when they leave home? I recall eagerly awaiting letters from my parents, and they in turn waited for the sound of the postman. Did yesterday's letters contain more substance, more reflection, perhaps more emotional balm, than today's brief emails, text messages and hurried phone calls made while we multi-task our way through life?

There is a curious, one-sided equation at work here. Life on earth is sustained by love and nurture for the next generation. When parents become old children have a moral responsibility to look after them to the best of their ability. But the love that flows from parents to children is a more fundamental force of nature.  And so I find myself constantly thinking of my parents in my dealings with my children – what would my father do in this situation? What would my mother say?

They were both insistent, my late parents, on raising independent children. And this creates another conundrum. Today it is much easier to give things, money, plane tickets, restaurant meals to my children. Yet raising them with plenty – is that always a good thing? Aren't lessons learned the hard way – through making decisions and living with their consequences – lessons well-learned? How will my children face life when I am not here for them?

And the question that comes up over and over: Do I even come close to matching the unconditional love that my parents gave me?

As my daughter waves goodbye on her way to the airport, I recall Tagore's words, "jete nahi dibo... tobu jete dite hoi" – I don't want to let go... yet I have to let go. Isn't that the way of the world?

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