Kishore SinghP: Why bonding isn't child's play

Some while ago, my father suggested I show more interest in what my children get up to, so that our relationship does not become estranged. I thought this was sound advice, so I followed up on his counsel. "Do you like your work?" I asked my daughter, who said, "It's fine." Perhaps she'd had a tiring day at work, but in any case she refused to be more forthcoming, which was disconcerting considering I was persisting with building a bridge based on mutual trust. "What do you get up to when you go out clubbing?" I encouraged her to respond, hoping a dialogue would develop. "Oh, dad, you're so cheap," she exclaimed, stomping out of the room, putting an end to our conversation.

When rapprochement didn't seem possible, I turned to my son, who, as usual, was immersed in his iPhone. "Solved any good cases?" I asked him, hoping he'd spill the beans on exciting legal incidents at the high court. "Working on them," he responded laconically. "Still, anything interesting?" I egged him on. "No, nothing," he persisted. I sighed. Maybe we already were estranged.

"You mustn't nag them," my wife suggested, "you must appeal to what interests them." "Read any good stories lately?" I checked with my daughter as she lay sprawled across her bed, a library book before her and a plate of interesting titbits on a platter by her side. "No," she yawned, "Eat something exciting?" "No." "Go somewhere interesting?" "No." "Have a nice chat with a friend?" "Listen, dad, where is this going?" she demanded to know. I told her I was bonding with her. "Well, do it with your wife," she advocated, "you're creeping me out."

I thought my daughter would give her husband a tough time when she got married, but, of course, I didn't say so. Instead, I asked my son what he hoped to achieve at a conference of lawyers he was scheduled to attend in Hong Kong. "I won't know till I'm there," he replied. Still, did he have any plans? "Well, yes," he confirmed, "on the first evening I intend to take my boss pub crawling at Lan Kwai Fong." Since the street is the island's infamous adult district, I told him that perhaps he ought to find some other place to chill with his colleague. "Oh, I'm doing that on the second evening, for which I need your help to make a reservation."

Since anything that requires a booking is likely to be respectable, I had no hesitation in offering him the use of my credit card, but was dismayed to get an email confirmation from a tattoo parlour in Hong Kong instead. "There must be some mistake," I said to my son, holding up the alarming message accompanied by some very strange looking motifs of fire-breathing dragons and feather-trailing birds. "No mistake, no," corrected my son, "I'm taking the opportunity to get inked by a master tattooist."

I hold no torch for people who mutilate their bodies but I could complain, and did, to his boss who was accompanying him on the tour. "About that tattoo…" I began. "Yes, thank you so much," she cut in, "I've been wanting to get one for the longest, but it wouldn't have been possible without your son's help in fixing an appointment, and the loan of your credit card." "I think," I said to my father later, "I prefer being distanced from my children rather than knowing what they're getting up to from uncomfortably close."