A side effect of being a writer is that friends will frequently draw you in to draft letters to resident welfare associations to complain about community parking lots, or someone's raucous partying, or unclaimed garbage. Their children will want you to write submission essays for admissions to universities abroad. And your family will draw blood if you don't provide brilliant insights into their WhatsApp messages in grammatically wrong English. But I had never before been recruited to help a 10-year-old having trouble with her school essay. The topic about celebrating Diwali was simple enough, but the poor mite, whose parents were estranged, seemed to be having trouble getting a grip on the subject.
To prod her along, I asked her what her family did on Diwali. "Mostly, mama fights with daddy because neighbour uncle gets more presents than us from people who come in big-big cars," said the child. I didn't think it right to tell her about their neighbour's proclivity towards graft by any name, so I steered her to her family's activities. "What does your mother do for Diwali?" "She dresses up," said the child, cheering up a little, "and goes off to play cards." It wasn't just her mother who abandoned her in the pursuit of a game of teen-patti, her father too seemed equally indifferent to her welfare. "His friends come over, and they drink whisky, then they play cards."
Card parties in his house would frequently erupt into fights over money, or cheating, or both. "Rajesh uncle always cheats," the girl said, "and Meena mami gets drunk," but what seemed troubling was the presence of bouncers whose job was to ensure that those who lost at the tables were not allowed to get away - confiscating their cars when they ran out of cash, or chips, towing them off to some a hidden garage till accounts were squared up a few days later. But the child's father remained a good sport, making sure cabs were provided to take his guests home, plus a little extra to ensure that their fare was covered.
My daughter, who enjoys a discretionary flutter with her friends, was scandalised when, at an acquaintance's farmhouse this week, she found they'd set up a casino complete with backgammon and roulette tables, blackjack dealers and even slot machines. "And everyone was playing such high stakes," she exclaimed, "all we could do was watch." Her brother, who used to enjoy a rashly played round or two while dependent on pocket money, has been less prone to gambling ever since he started bringing home a cheque, lately preferring to be in the audience than a participant in Delhi's high-scale jousts.
Meanwhile, I still had the little girl and her essay to worry about. Diwali, I told her, is about new clothes, and homemade sweets, and firecrackers, even though they pollute the air. "I can buy new clothes any day," she pouted, "I complain to mama that daddy said no to me, or I tell daddy that mama won't give me money, and both of them send me to the mall with the driver and their credit cards." Not only was she competent in manipulating her parents, a friend explained she was reluctant to see them get back together for fear that she'd wield less power over them. "Uncle," she said to me, "if you just write my essay, I'll send the driver to your home with a car full of gifts for aunty that mama and daddy won't even miss."
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