The phone rang at 1:00 PM in summer and at 1:30 PM in winter. Every working day. Even if I was busy, my office connected the call. Failure in trying to engage the caller had made them realized the futility of any alternate action. His focus was unwavering. “Can I please speak to Mamma?”

It was the most important conversation of the day. He discussed his day in school, in detail. My advice was sought on momentous topics: if it was okay for his sister to ignore him on the bus to whether he should be rewarded with a half-hour of TV watching or did he need to sleep in the afternoon. While my opinions became less important with time, my voice remained important. Literally. I made sure that I was always present at the end of the line.

She would walk in after a party, an outing with friends or even from the park on some days and have, what I have called, verbal diarrhoea. I was told in great detail what everyone had said and done. She would be indignant at the ‘atrocities’ (a term she still uses for things which miff her – they mostly have to do with animal rights and gender bias now), she would be upset at what she considered (and I agreed) ‘insensitivity’ and she would regale me with what all amused her (there was a lot). Then she would retire in a corner with a book. As I started becoming less intelligent, her knowledge base grew phenomenally.

Now, I find that my children are amused, and often outraged that I make politically incorrect statements like “what was she thinking when she wore that?” and give baseless advice, “honey and ginger are good for your throat”. That despite having earned a graduate degree in technology, I still need to ask how to make my laptop do certain things. That I worry about them when they are perfectly capable.

This shall pass. Mark Twain discovered that his father improved much as he transitioned from teenage to adulthood. Mine possibly also will!