She tossed my pencils and paper away with a sharp flick of her 4-year-old hand. "No," she said, "not on paper, on your computer." We moved to my room. Me in a state of obedience and she in a state of ominous 4-year-oldness. "What kind of house do you want?" I suddenly felt her finger poke my thigh. My dumb brain-box exploded and my thoughts on the concept of 'child' escaped through my fingers that were opening 'Paint' in submission to the demand of "on your computer." "A sea-facing one with a low red roof on green grass under a blue sky with greyish clouds." "Okay," and she turned her too-tiny-for-the-chair body to face the screen and grabbed at the convex of Logitech. I said nothing. I sat cross-legged on my bed watching the armed-with-a-mouse 48-month-old architect in action. And she struggled with the Pencil tool and couldn't find the Eraser; and when she did, the mouse wouldn't stay still; and when it did, the brush size rubbed out more than it was supposed to; and while trying to correct it, the Zoom tool was hit; and the larger than life canvas threw her off balance. Half an hour later, we'd used six new files and I still didn't have a home to live in. All I had was a few jumbled strokes of red (which, even by Howard Roark's standards, didn't look like a roof), a few jumbled strokes of blue (which would never form a sea or a sky even if you looked at it upside down) no green and no grey. Result: She was a frustrated 4-year-old and I was a dumb 22. A few attempts at breaking my guitar strings and she left for her bedroom in Breach Candy. She hadn't made my home. She couldn't make my home. She was way too young. I sat there, suddenly feeling a strong emotion sweep over me. It didn't take me long to recognise it. It was the same emotion I felt each time I saw a horse rider lash his whip into the skin of a 'running too slow' steed at Juhu beach. I sat appalled. For a lot of reasons. Appalled because of the vulgar ads. Appalled because of the institutions. Appalled because of her parents. And, more importantly, appalled, because a childhood had been sold to technology. For the princely price of Rs 2,500. She was thrown into a 'summer camp' for kids. 'Learn computers in 14 days!' That's what that ad that hung over Linking Road had shouted. And she was packed off to learn how to "copy paste" in Word and "do math" in Excel. At the age of four. What kind of diplomas does one want from life? Hey, Bill Gates, you listening? I think your precious packages lack a critical Error Message -- Access Denied! Meant for children above eight years only. The previous weekend, I was in Pune, at a mammoth bookstore. Intrigued, I made my way to the kids' section. Coloured shelves were packed with cardboard boxes that pitched for "Fun." Only, I didn't seem to be having any. Hundreds of He-mans, GI Joes, guns, tractors. Three Scrabble boxes and an equal number of Pictionary. Some 15 pages of Wizard Of Oz were priced at Rs 80. Noddy was non-existent. So was Amelia Jane. CD-ROMS were aplenty. I was suddenly afraid. How imaginative will my kids be? I had stepped into that section to walk down a road that I thought would resemble the one I skipped up when I was much younger. Only, this road was different. Alien. I stood for a while holding Peter Pan, wondering how many kids still fall asleep to the voice of their parents telling them about Never Never Land. I wondered how many kids recognise the delight of holding a pencil. Of watching a design grow on a blank sheet of paper. Of colouring a bird and spilling paint all over their shorts. Of dunking a ball into a basket. Academics. And excellence. And homework. And exams. And results. And success. And competition. And achievement. Push the kid. Push the kid. Push the kid. Report cards slashed with red. Four-year-old kids failed because they "will not concentrate in class." Concentrate? We expect a 4-year-old grasshopper mind to concentrate? To work when we want them to work? To play when we want them to play? Has anyone heard of 'moods?' Even you and I can't work and play when we "don't feel up to it." And if a 48-month-old kid feels the same way, we fail them. When they are just about learning how to "do potty" in the right places and at the right time, we teach them how to hold a mouse. When they are just about able to put on most of the buttons of their nightsuits unaided, we teach them that 90 per cent is not good enough. When they tense muscles struggling up three stages of a jungle gym, we teach them that 95 per cent will take them further. And, by the time they can knot their ties, we've taught them to aim for 100 per cent perfection. My mind travels back to my psycho professor. To something that she had said, but I hadn't quite understood. I had written it down on the last page of my notebook. "Not on paper, on your computer" reminded me of those incomprehensible long-ago words. I fished out the pages. I read, "Perfection is self-destructive." And agreed. Bhavna Giani has just one plea, "Let kids remain kids!" Illustration: Uttam Ghosh Tell us what you think of this diary
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