Mom, and Moby Dick

GOWRI RAMNARAYAN

My son has an exam tomorrow, his first as a college undergraduate. And instead of watching television to prepare for the event - as he had always done for the last eleven years in school - the boy is now sitting at his table and writing steadily, with an ardour that delights my soul. A miracle? The table lamp casts a halo round his head.

"College has tranformed him," I tell myself. "He has realised the importance of hard work. He has become responsible - at last."

Leaving the grey cells to hum undisturbed, I walk away on tiptoe and return with a cup of fuel - steaming hot ginger tea. I ruffle his hair and ask fondly, "How's it going?"

"Not bad," the angel replies.

"Are you writing notes?" I ask, even more fondly.

"Notes? That's for nerds," he sniggers.

"Then are you working out a model test paper?"

The boy gives me a pitying look. "Mom, it's bad enough to do exams in the class room. Why would I torture myself doing it at home?"

I should have left at that point. But I persist. "You've been working for over an hour now. What are you writing?"

"A novel." The boy announces, as if he is saying "I'm going for my bath," or "I'm going to play pool."

I take a whole minute to pull myself together and then ask, "What's it about?"

"Dolphins."

"Why dolphins?" I say, to gain time.

The boy looks up at last. And explains patiently. "You know, I had this dream. More real than reality. I go into this huge building. I'm alone. It's pitch dark. Suddenly, squares of light spring up all round me. They are tanks full of water, with different kinds of fish. The biggest one up front seems empty. But wait, something is stirring deep inside. It moves, it gets closer. A huge snout comes straight at me. It's a dolphin." He adds after a pause. "So that's why."

"You dreamt this last night?"

"No, this afternoon. Study holidays are nice, we have the time for solid lunches and really long naps."

At this point I stop all inquiries. I leave the room in absolute silence.

The next day I confide in my Dad. "Your grandson spending his study holidays eating solid lunches and taking long naps. And when he takes paper and pen, it's to write what he calls a novel. He says it's about dolphins. Why don't you talk to him?"

My Dad's face creases for a minute. Then he relaxes into a smile. "You know, in such situations, lecturing doesn't do any good. But look on the bright side. After all, do you think Herman Melville's mother knew that her son was writing Moby Dick when she watched him waste time and paper?"

And that's all I could get out of him...

Well, today's exam is over. My son is back for lunch and siesta. Yes, he is writing again tonight. The same table lamp casts the same halo round his head. There's a background score of guitars and drums screamimg at full volume.

Yes, I make that tea again, this time for the grey cells to produce another Moby Dick.

But guess what, for the first time I sympathise wholeheartedly with Captain Ahab, who has villainish feelings towards Herman Melville - sorry, of course I mean Moby Dick the whale...Suddenly, I know exactly how the wicked captain feels.

Tell me, can I help it?

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