Tripped Up By The Birds And The Bees

How much should an 11-year-old know about condoms? By my reckoning, nothing, but it was obvious that life's lessons were in store for my son this last week. Because my parents were visiting the capital, my brothers in-laws invited us all for dinner, but conversation was a little sparse. In one of the pregnant silences, to fill up the vacuum so to say, my son began to hum a jingle that sounded vaguely familiar, increasing the level of volume and comprehensibility till it dawned on us, at about the same time that he climaxed to a thundering ovation, that he was paying his ode to a brand of condoms.

My wife had an apoplectic fit, the in-laws began to turn a shade of red, my mother wolfed down a potato roll and pronounced the kebab very good. Only my father, who is a little hard of hearing, continued to smile encouragement at his grandson: "What was that again? Come, let's hear what you said." To drown out the repeat performance that seemed imminent, a babble of nervous conversation broke out, and for the moment at least, the jingle was behind us.

I was mulling over the matter the following morning, seated at Vigyan Bhawan, where the prime minister had just delivered a speech, when my name was called out: I was to stand and receive the audience's applause for some work I'd done on a book. I failed to hear these exhortations, however, since I was working out the best way to educate a boy on the birds and the bees without letting on anything. Because my name was repeated, those seated around me propped me up. But the master of ceremonies failed to spot me, and so to catch his attention, I waved to him, at which the prime minister waved right back.

It was now the turn of babudom to turn apoplectic. "You don't wave at the prime minister," officials shouted at me. "I didn't," I protested, "I waved to the emcee." "You don't understand protocol," I was informed. "But neither does the prime minister," I managed to get in, wondering what the brouhaha was about.

Later in the evening, I noticed the two short men in my life _ my father and my son _ gang up. "Papa doesn't know much," I heard Napoleon Jr say, "he's always fussing about things." Napoleon Sr, hearing aid tuned fine now, added: "He was always an old woman, even as a child." "Dadu," said my son, for that is the manner in which he addresses him, "do you really think Papa has menopause?" My father giggled unbecomingly and said, "Who told you that?" My son confided, "The last time Mama banged the car and Papa lost his temper, she said he should go to a doctor because he was nearing his menopause." Then some more giggles later, he dared to ask, "Do all middle-aged men have menopause?"

My father did discredit to his stature when he whispered conspiratorially, "Actually it's women who have menopause, but I agree that in your father's case, there seems to be enough evidence to show that he seems to have it too."

"Is it a disease?" my son wanted to know. "It is," explained my father, "and it shows itself as irritability, which is why your grandmother is always surly."

"Irritability," mused my son, "that must mean Papa has always had menopause." Having learned so much, he now dared to ask more: "Dadu, what's a condom?" My father tackled that one with great suavity, if a somewhat lesser degree of truth: "It's what keeps men from having menopause."

What I'd like to know is: who kept that packet of condoms in my bedside drawer?