Kishore Singh: Growing up is hard to do

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In her last week at school my daughter's having a lot of growing up to do, and not all of it has to do with the pang of parting from friends, many of whom she shared tiffins, seats, jokes and confidences with for well over a decade. The thrill of finally flinging off the school uniform forever and of being able to engage teachers in conversation less as adversaries and more as equals is tempered with the horrifying realisation that a close school friend's father has been diagnosed with brain cancer, that college admissions require enrollment in tutorial sweatshops, that some friends are taking courses that will require them to move away from the city, that as young adults they will soon be able to drive, vote, even "" should some conservative parents insist, and apparently many do "" marry and have children of their own.

She is also confused because many of her friends are cheating on years of friendship to spend time instead, she tells me in some horror, "with boys"! "Friends," I correct her, "they're just friends, why do you make the distinction of referring to them as boyfriends and girlfriends?" "Duh," says my little girl in exasperation, "because they are girlfriends and boyfriends." "No," I'm inflexible on the point, "you're exaggerating."

In a lesson I will remember with some embarrassment for a long time, my daughter then explains about the birds and the bees in the context of her own friends. I'm still trying to make sense of some of it when my daughter pats me kindly and says, "It's cool not to understand, else you'd be just a dirty old man."

Not that she's always as understanding. For some months now, we've been having a battle because she wants to give her room a makeover, which means moving most of the furniture out on a more or less permanent basis. Since all of the furniture has been custom-built for the room, it will mean dismantling it, and since there's no space in the apartment for it anyway, junking it. I'm insisting we at least wait till we know where she's going to college "" if she's not going to studying in Delhi, it would be such a waste "" before moving the painters and carpenters in.

The reason she's adamant is because she's seen her mother occupy our son's room the moment he moved out, and fears that my wife might attempt a hostile takeover of her room too. "But if you're not going to be here," my wife is unapologetic, "why should it matter to you how I use your room?" "Because it's my room, with my memories," my daughter insists. I couldn't agree more "" also because, long before my son's, and even my daughter's domains were threatened, I had been practically asked to fend for my things wherever I could find the space.

It is therefore with some trepidation I seek out my clothes and working papers. I have a shelf to myself in my son's bedroom, some closet space in my daughter's room, one drawer for important papers in my own bedroom, and on occasion have looked for shoes, socks, belts, toiletries and income tax documents in the extra storage space in the kitchen.

But for now we have a huge amount of raddi to get rid of "" joining the school uniform are black shoes, schoolbags, geometry kits, water bottles and tiffin boxes, schoolbooks and notes, jars full of (mostly non-functional) pens, dictionaries, school diaries, bundles of physical and political maps, rolls of poster paper, worksheets, old report cards, test sheets, (sometimes incomplete) tutorials, practical files... My daughter looks at them and sighs "" it's her whole life, so far "" and says, "School's out "" but I think I'm going to miss it."