Idols, clay feet, and such

I’ve been having a series of “my parents…!!” conversations with friends. Sometimes about my parents, sometimes about theirs.

There was the midnight call from Delhi to Bombay. The many, many calls from Bombay to wherever I was. One while walking on Necklace Road. One day-long conversation over the phone and an ‘aerated drink’.

Don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t all complaints.

It was also stories. Of hands held while we toddled along, of food made just for us, of nappies changed, things given up, fibreglass blackboards on the walls, childish writing in expensive books.

And there was also laughter. Smiles of joy at some memories, outright fun at others.

And almost-tears. For all they did, all they tried to do. For protecting us from ourselves, from the big, bad world.

Polishing the idols, crying over their clay feet, polishing them again.

Maybe it’s time we realised they’re human!

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