I became a grandfather recently, joining an
exalted circle of senior celebrities like D Maradona (football star), M Jagger
(rock star) and M Yuzer (an old friend featured in a TV toothpaste commercial). My son and daughter-in-law were blessed with
a baby girl on 6 October. A pretty and precious bundle of joy, and I can’t wait
for her first smile. By convention, my son should be a proud father of a baby girl. I'm not sure whether I'm allowed to be a proud grandfather of a baby girl. But I'm happy enough about this paternal progression. The new arrival will ramp up the clatter and clutter level
in an otherwise humless and humdrum household. She may cry and crank anytime
she likes if she can promise me now that she won’t support Manchester United.
A retiree with a grandchild or two in tow is now industry
standard. And why not, Indonesian maids are now rarer than rhodium, and even if
they’re available, they’d work only five days a week, eight hours a day (which
is actually two hours if you exclude telpon and sinetron). Take it or leave it,
says the evil agent aka people trafficker. For young families caught in this cruelty,
retiree-grandfathers are a godsend. They’re technically unemployed simply
because growing old isn’t considered substantive work. They’re lazy and
unskilled, yes, but they cost less than nothing and require no visa, so there’s
plenty of value for no money. I read somewhere that a retiree can keep his mind
sharp and chic by memorizing poems, solving cryptic crosswords and, better
still, playing sudoku. Sudoku? Give me the baby, now.
I’m actually lagging behind most of my Tiger Lane
classmates, who’re already walking and talking with their grandchildren. It's impossible to follow everyone's sexual habits, but I won't be surprised if there are altogether now 400 children and grandchildren from the two 1966 classes. Azlan
has two or three grandchildren now. Ibrahim three or more. Cikgu Ya a dozen, as of last week.
Zaki, somehow, has none but still stands a fair chance if he gets married today
and work on it immediately. I can still recall our classrooms and dorms and
debates and the sick bay and Mr Sarjit Singh but I can’t quite recall
anybody even vaguely talking about children, let alone grandchildren. Why? One elegant but unscientific theory points to the daily (and nightly) proximity to same-sex classmates and dormmates causing a complete loss interest in reproduction. A simpler (still unscientific) theory is that we're just too exhausted to think about anything after navigating the mighty meals prepared by our award-winning masterchef in
the dining hall. Whatever the reason, here we’re now: grandfather, and loving
all of it.
I’m not sure what unique skills are required of a
grandfather other than sleeping with a grandmother. A good friend congratulated
me, adding a word of caution, bold upper-case: don’t use your diapers for the
baby. Now I can understand why Brutus killed his friend Julius Caesar. As with
my progeny, I always wonder which part, or how much, of my architecture will be
passed down to my granddaughter. I guess not much, if any. She already has two
parents to take after. Anyway it's neither urgent nor important for her to share
any part of my human biology (let's not discuss the inhuman part here). I can’t
solve a simple quadratic equation to begin with. I can't play the violin or even
cricket. High cholesterol is not a talent. Neither is writing crap like this.
So it's in everybody's best interest that the baby keeps only the minimum of my
genetic footprint.
She's hardly a month old and I'm already nervous.
Well, not nervous the way you're nervous about your sugar spike and memory
mess. Actually I'm just pondering her way forward. Growing up in a country with
the world's worst taxi drivers won't be a cakewalk. Not to mention snatch
thieves, multi-level scammers, illegal students, Kelantan football supporters.
I had job offers before completing my final-year (economics, not obstetrics).
She'll have to compete with 200,000 or more unemployed graduates for job
interviews. Job interviews, not jobs. It’s only fair to ask some serious questions
here and now. Like, will she be able to buy a basic house at RM 5 million in
2040? Will she be clever enough to graduate from one of the 100 local
international medical schools in 2036 but ending up telemarketing at Citibank? Will
PM finally announce the next general election date by the time she goes to
school in 2019? These are trick questions. Do not attempt.
A baby is a God's gift and will. My dear mother
always reminds me that God knows what we don't know. My fears are unfounded and
disturbing drivel contrived out of a flagging mind. There’s no excuse for this
alarmist and Malthusian tone. In 2019 Malaysia will start as a fully
developed and civilized country, free of cronies, junkies and tuition fees. My
granddaughter will do just fine. She’ll shine and flourish and go to Princeton or Brown. With
none of her grandfather's cognitive complexities, she might even play the
violin.