The Other side of the Paper

 The other side of the Paper

Dr. Mushtaque B Barq

Under this heavy head, acrobatics of all sorts were blocking my responses. Something of the sort was hitting hard. Yes, a bad memory always kicks and kicks mercilessly. I must have acted as a parent, not as a dictator. I spoiled the smile of my child. It was only a digit after all. His 90%, a hard line set by teachers and siblings, was all that I nursed in my mind. Ah! I should have been a bit different.

As a parent, my role must be flexible, rather elastic and adjustable in nature. The next day at breakfast, his fallen face turned my cup of tea into a hemlock. His sighs were visible, and I was hiding my thumping.

“Dear son, can you pull this bread?” I asked. Bread was only an excuse; I just wanted to restart and reconstruct the broken link. He pulled it, but he never raised his eyes. His fallen eyes were narrating a tale of my failure as a parent to know his trouble. Instead of knowing his concern, I only displayed my might as an ignorant parent.

But then I never gave up. I cleared my throat and asked, “Marks are only digits, and digits can be turned forth and back.”

He raised his head. I was the most relaxed man on earth.

“Dad, I will try my best to do what you expect of me.” His words pierced through my rib cage like a bird being hunted for hours before receiving a volley of arrows.

The discussion had already started, and I was keen to take it to the next level. His watery eyes against a backdrop of green curtains spoiled the rainbow of my parenting.

I lowered my head. He placed his hand on my shoulder and paused for a moment.

“Dad, can we think of life without digits?” He asked and left.

His words echoed in the empty cans of my consciousness, and I realized that we live by digits only.

I have only a few digits as my identity; my Adhar card is the digital proof of my identity; my passport number is evidence of my citizenship; my phone number is my digital identity in the sophisticated cosmos of connectivity; my marks sheet is the unique destiny of my comprehension; rather, it is a blue print of my memories. I was lost in my digits when he came out with his mark sheet and placed it before me again.

The digits on the sheet were too haunting, but then he turned the page of his marks sheet where the teacher had put his remarks:

Shamshad is a promising boy, ready to learn and unlearn. He is courageous enough to experiment. He might fail many times, but I believe his failures will find a solution for the rest of the world.

For the first time, I failed to weigh the words of a teacher. The remarks have already erased my digits, and I resolved: The other side of the paper has a different tale to tell and celebrate only if you turn it on at the right time.