A Grandfather Like Me

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.