Kishore Singh: One son-downer too many

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Because my college-going son is always finding newer ways to gain himself a monthly allowance above and beyond what has been negotiated, I was extremely suspicious when he asked if I could help him get a Permanent Account Number, as required by the Income Tax Office. “Your allowance,” I reminded him, “is not taxable.”

“If it was,” he laughed back, “you’d have to pay it anyway as fringe benefit tax.” That’s what comes of educating your children.

He might be up on taxes and laws, or having me on, but I was sure I would not fall for his latest scheme, earlier versions of which had ended up with my standing in a queue at the bank to deposit cash in an envelope to be wired to his account in Pune. “No, really,” my son insisted when I said I wasn’t falling for another of his scams, “I just want to start investing some of my money, so by the time I’m through with college, I’ll have a little something to start me off.”

“My money,” I corrected him, “and I’m trying to take care of what little is left over after you and the rest of the family is done with it, so don’t think up any more ways of getting your paws on it.” “No, no,” my son was vehement, “it’s just that I have a little bit left over every month, so I thought I’d buy some mutual funds instead of blowing it up in some pub.”

Because my son does not think like this, and since pubbing comes to him more naturally than saving, he was either running fever, or this was an even more elaborate charade than most.

He explained that at the Reliance store in the neighbourhood where he shops for his groceries, there was apparently some scheme that required him to make a monthly deposit that would be invested in funds and would leave him richer as a bonafide graduate than he was as a student. I heard him through and agreed that it was okay if he wanted to park some of his leftover riches in whatever investment venture he wanted, provided (and this was the critical factor) I did not have to fund it. “Of course not,” said my son indignantly, “I said it would be my investment, not yours.” That settled,

I nodded amiably at my wife and said, “It is no thanks to you that our son is so well brought up and thinking of his future,” to which I think my wife responded rudely with a “Pshaw!” though I couldn’t be sure.

The next day when I called up my son, he asked me to wire him a rather large sum of money as part of the investment arrangement.

“But I thought you said you were confident of handling it on your own,” I retorted. “I thought about it,” he agreed, “and decided you must pay at least a quarter of the sum every month, so you will feel responsible enough to ensure I do not falter on my part of the bargain.”

In a convoluted way this made sense, so I agreed to the arrangement. But even so, the sum my son had requested was much, much too large. “That’s because I have to pay at least six months worth in advance,” he explained. “Naturally, you have to pay for that, unless,” he suggested, “you simply want me to spend all the money I have.” Which is why, one way or another, I now find that I have agreed to invest a sum of money every month in a scheme not of my choice to keep my son invested in a portfolio that will leave him richer and me poorer.