Opinion How to raise a boy: I used to think I could curate my son’s world. I was wrong

He can sing Ishwar Allah Tero Naam, because my father taught him the hymn, because his thoughtful aunt gifted a Gandhi matryoshka doll that prompted this session.

He’s a Sanjay Subrahmanyan fan, and requests songs any time he meets Sanjay maama.

Loves thillanas.

Has heard an entire jazz concert mesmerised. Loves brass instruments and percussion. Turns any surface into a drum.

And he loves swings.

If only my husband and I could curate who gets to raise our son, we’d fill his life with people and things that aligned with our beliefs like these. After all, we have curated our own adult lives this way. Minimising interactions with those we are unable to reconcile with on the important things.

What I have discovered, however, is that it indeed does take a village to raise a child. Especially one full of verve from the moment he wakes up, and is (astonishingly) capable of maintaining those energy levels until he finally falls asleep. Much as I want to be the primary influencer of his life, he is a being of his own, has always been. (I am convinced he had strong opinions as a 6-week-old, what can I say! The way he screamed if we didn’t walk with him at 3 am convinced me so.) And because he speaks, and he speaks a lot at so young an age, and because he isn’t anxious about the world, and is looking at it with wonder and love, awe and joy, he has interactions with several people, many ideas, vastly varied approaches to life every single day. And it is impossible for me to handpick his world to be only touched by those whose impeccable taste I approve of.

But I do approve of the large cast of human beings he has made a part of his family. From his grandparents to his babysitter, the aunties in his toddler care, his friends and the many mamas and aunties he converses with freely all day long… they all feed his curious mind.

It is his interaction with strangers that brings me most delight and, of course, concern. One morning many months ago, a man dressed as Hanuman appeared at our doorstep with a handheld cymbal, singing songs. Any two objects of that size are now cymbals, and they are accompanied by a song or a chant about Rama from my little one.

As a writer, I would, of course, prefer to introduce him to the myth and lore of the land, and the gods who seemingly are everywhere. But I realise there simply is no time, because before I can decide what and how, someone else has already chanted a political, religious slogan in his presence, only half joking.

His introduction to these politicised, hyper-masculine, always-angry avatars of male gods without my editorial input has been ongoing, as I watch helplessly. As children who grew up on those ubiquitous Amar Chitra Kathas and Doordarshan’s Ramayana and Mahabharata, who now want to control and drip-feed myths to their children… oh the irony writes itself.

After the initial hand-wringing and cursory, pointless fretting, I decided I would do what I could to help him understand this world. (Holding myself up to impossible standards has never been a problem!). And so, I’m trying to take the pressure off my son now, and apply it on to my own self — only this time, to make myself softer. To set the example, by holding myself accountable to others, I share my space with. By trying to figure out how to not fly into rage, and deal with conflict with presence and control. To show him how much I love the softer things for him as well.

Embracing the Montessori way has helped somewhat at this stage, for it emphasises independence and shows us that the precious reward of learning is indeed self-sufficiency.

I am far from the perfect human, and one who’s painfully aware of her own shortcomings. And I don’t expect to raise a mythical, perfect human son either.

But if I were to apply one of the many writing lessons to my life, in raising my son it is: Show, don’t tell.

After all, monkey see, monkey do.

Ge is a Chennai-based author. Her second novel Burns Boy (Context Books) is out now