Gappa With Pappa

From Chasing Headlines to Chasing a Toddler For years, I reported on crime, politics, and the chaos of the world for national newspapers like Hindustan Times, The Hindu, and Deccan Herald. Now, my biggest assignment is mindful parenting— raising my 2-year-old son, Gappa, with intention and awareness. Here on X to share my experiences, learnings, and the science behind raising kids — not just to document my own story, but to help other parents navigate theirs. From crime scenes to cracking the code on raising a child without screen addiction — welcome to #GappaWithPappa. 🎥 Follow our journey: 📍 Two reels daily on Instagram: @gappa.with.pappa 📍 Two vlogs every week on YouTube: @GappaWithPappa

My first Gappa With Pappa newsletter is out. ❤️ It also has one parenting miss, one win, and some things I’ve been thinking about as a father. Click to read. And subscribe if you want to. gappawithpappa.substack.com/…

FIRST WE LAUGHED. THEN WE PANICKED. The other day, we were driving in Bangalore when an accident happened right in front of us. Two scooters collided, both riders tumbled off, and they immediately began fighting. It was a typical, intense city moment. But it was my 3-year-old son Gappa’s reaction that left us speechless. The moment he saw the collision, he let out a loud, perfectly timed "F##k." He didn't just say the word; he used the exact tone and intensity an adult uses when they see a disaster. Linguistically, the usage was perfect. My wife and I responded in the same spontaneous way on hearing the word — we let out an amused laugh. But before he could see us, we quickly put on a serious look and pretended we hadn't heard anything. Instead, we started fielding his curious questions about the accident to distract him. But the incident left me completely conflicted. Honestly, I’ve always been confused about this. For some reason, and in contrast to how I myself was raised, stopping him from using cuss words wasn’t at the top of my priority list as a father. I’m much more worried about him using a phone screen than I am about him uttering one of these “bad words”. For example, we rid him of screens the moment we realized phones were dangerous, but with expletives? We didn't care enough. Because if we cared, we’d have done everything to remove it from our vocabulary. I used to justify this carelessness by thinking, "How much can we shield him?" These words are everywhere — on the streets, in movies, with relatives. But I think I was missing the nuance. There is a huge difference between him hearing a word outside and hearing it used casually by us at home. One is just a noise in the world; the other is an endorsement from his primary caregivers. Gappa is at an age where he observes every little thing. He repeats stuff he hears just once. So of course he’s going to absorb and repeat the expletives he hears every now and then. Unfortunately, it was part of our vocabulary at home, and I’m not going to sit here and justify our lack of effort to clean it. But now, my wife and I are making a conscious effort to clean our vocabulary. We pinch ourselves lightly on our arms whenever we utter them. That is helping us stay mindful. We are trying to calmly explain to him that these are “not good words,” and we’re training ourselves not to react with amusement when he utters them. But if I’m being honest, this effort isn't coming from a place of moral outrage. It’s coming from fear. I’m afraid Gappa will be discriminated against at school. I fear his teachers or classmates will judge him — and us — if he utters it at school. I don’t want him to be targeted or labeled a "bad boy" just because he’s uttering words for fun, without knowing how they can be misused. And as he grows older, I want to help him understand that words have weight. I want him to know that these words, if uttered at the wrong time and wrong place, can be disrespectful and make him come across as brash. But that understanding will come only when he is older. Until then, the burden is entirely on us to watch what we say in front of him. In an age where these words have become a casual part of our daily vocabulary, how much should we really worry? Is this just a minor social hiccup, or is it a fundamental parenting failure I’ve been too lazy to fix? Do share your thoughts on where to draw the line. Thanks for reading. ❤️

MY SON SAW RIGHT THROUGH ME Last night, my 3-year-old son Gappa caught me trying to "shortcut" my duties as a parent. While I’ll excuse myself despite a sense of guilt, Gappa was deeply impacted. He was left extremely sad and calling out for his Mumma. Like every night, I took him to bed with the promise of stories. Our sessions often last 45-60 minutes. It is his favorite time of the day, so I indulge him well. But last night, I was exhausted. I was feeling very sleepy and I knew I would drop dead in no time. Gappa, on the other hand, had taken a long afternoon nap and was bursting with energy. So, I decided to resort to a "technique" I had successfully used a few days earlier. My plan was simple: tell the most boring, unimaginative story possible to lull his brain into submission. I convinced him to hear a story about a horse. We hopped onto the horse and began riding toward the moon. To facilitate a quick sleep, I urged him to close his eyes and imagine. The horse galloped — tak-tak-tak-tak-tak-tak. We passed a cat that said meow. We responded with a meow and a bye-bye. Then the horse continued — tak-tak-tak-tak-tak-tak until we passed a dog. We exchanged “bow-bow” greetings and continued on our journey. As minutes passed, I kept increasing the length of the galloping sounds. I’d go on with the tak-tak-tak for as long as possible, hoping the repetition would act like a sedative. To help things along, I was lightly running my fingers over his face in a circular motion. But as I tried to bore him to sleep, I was the one falling asleep. My story went off-track and I started mumbling random nonsense in my sleep. At one point, Gappa actually sat up, stared at my face and asked, “Pappa, what is Vitamin D?” I jolted awake. I realized that in my dream state, I had stopped the story and was just repeating “Vitamin D, Vitamin D” over and over again. Eventually, I felt the end was near when Gappa stopped me. His tone was calm and straight. “Pappa, don’t tell the story anymore.” “Why Gappa?” I asked. “Because your story is not nice,” he said. He then turned over and appeared to want to go to sleep. I felt a little sense of guilt, but the relief was stronger. My sleep was overwhelming. I’ll make up for it tomorrow, I told myself. But a few minutes later, I was woken up by the sound of Gappa sobbing. It wasn’t a loud cry for attention. He wasn’t trying to wake me up or send me on a guilt trip. He was just sobbing quietly to himself, saying, “Mumma, Mumma.” My wife has been working from the office for a month and a half now, and in that time, I’ve been the one putting him to sleep. But it was the first time he was seeking her out in my presence. It was in that moment that guilt hit me harder than the exhaustion ever could. He hadn’t just rejected a "boring" story; he had felt my emotional absence. I got up, went to the washroom, and splashed cold water on my face. I then checked ChatGPT for a fresh and interesting storyline about dinosaurs. Over the next 30 minutes, I narrated the story with all the energy, animation and interest he deserved. It was a late-night lesson in the difference between being present and just being there. Thanks for reading. ❤️ Follow for more honest parenting stories and experiences.

MY SON IS NOT ‘CHEEKU’ (I WISH HE WAS) Every day, when I pick my 3-year-old son Gappa up from play school, there’s one question I almost compulsively ask him. “Have you made friends at school?” Most days, he simply brushes the question aside. Sometimes he gives me a vague nod. At best, I get a casual, non-committal, “Friends are there.” For a child as social and warm as Gappa, someone who quickly befriends even strangers, this absence of friends at school surprised me. And slowly, it began to worry me. Living in a standalone building in Bangalore, rather than a massive gated community with designated play areas, has its drawbacks. Gappa doesn’t have that organic "evening play" culture. So, I try to engineer it; I take him to local parks where I encourage him to play with random kids, or try to sync schedules with friends and relatives who have kids. But city life works differently. Everything is a "scheduled appointment," and nothing feels organic enough to last. It’s a sharp contrast to Gappa’s visits to our native village. There, friendship is unfiltered. He loiters with the village kids, they wrestle with each other, they follow him home, and I offer snacks to them all, feeling a deep sense of peace. When we leave the village, he misses them. He frequently asks about them and wants to see them over video calls. They even feature in the bedtime stories we tell each other. But a few weeks ago, I thought we finally had a breakthrough. A child waved at Gappa while leaving school, and Gappa waved back with enthusiasm. My heart soared. Finally, I thought, he had made a friend. But that excitement died a quick death when the other child’s parents approached me. “Is your son’s name Cheeku?” they asked hopefully. It turns out their son speaks incessantly about a "Cheeku," and they thought Gappa was Cheeku. But Gappa, unfortunately, is not Cheeku. 😁 My real fear is that Gappa is growing up surrounded by adults. No matter how much we "get down to his level" at home, we are not peers. We are parents. I worry that without the boisterous, messy company of other kids his age, he’ll start mimicking adult maturity, behaviour and language long before his time. I don't want him to be "wise"; I want him to be a kid and grow as per his age. Recently, I even checked with his teacher. She told me excitedly, “He’s friends with everyone! He plays with whoever lands up in front of him.” It was meant to be reassuring, but it felt like a hollow victory. Being "friends with everyone" often means having no one in particular. Isn’t it? But over the last few days, I’ve begun to see some hope. Some days ago, when I asked him my daily question, he didn't deflect. He mentioned a name: “Arnab.” Or maybe “Arnav”. Or “Aanav”. A day later, a second name appeared: “Christie” — at least, that’s what I think he said. These aren't just names anymore. He’s been consistent with the names. They’ve entered our bedtime stories and have become characters in his imaginary world. For the first time, he isn’t just saying “friends are there” — there are names now. And I can’t tell you how excited I am. I haven't asked the teacher to verify the names yet. Deep inside, I am afraid that they might be imaginary, or just kids he saw once. For now, I’m happy to live in the mystery. Whether they are real or just "ghost friends," Arnab and Christie have given my son something the city couldn't: a sense of belonging. Thanks for reading. ❤️

THE TROPHY MY SON DIDN’T EARN The other day, my wife and I had a difference of opinion about how to handle a small trophy Gappa brought home from school. By the end of it, I was left deeply admiring her perspective, even though I still believe my own concerns were valid. It started when I went to pick Gappa up from his play school. His teacher handed me his bag and mentioned they had placed a trophy inside. It was for his participation in the recent annual day performance, she said. But there was a catch — Gappa hadn't actually performed. Our visit to our native village had coincided with the event, so he had missed it entirely. When I mentioned this to the teacher, she said that he had rehearsed for it the first few days (so he deserved the trophy). I nodded, gave a polite, formal smile, put the bag in the car, and didn't think much of it. Yesterday morning, his Mumma found the trophy while checking his bag. She was surprised and a little agitated that I hadn't mentioned it. When she asked me what it was for, I told her nonchalantly that it was for the annual day. “He hadn’t participated, na,” I said to suggest why I wasn’t excited. That was the spark. She looked at me like a lioness protecting her cub. She asked if Gappa knew he hadn't "earned" it, or if anyone else cared about the technicality of his participation. To her, the "fact" that he wasn't on stage didn't matter. What mattered was that he had brought a trophy home. She turned to Gappa, formally presented the trophy to him with a huge smile, and told him, “You’ve won this trophy… you’ve won this trophy for doing everything so nicely”. Then she turned back to me and said something I won’t forget: “Don’t ever let your facts come in the way of encouraging him.” In that moment, I was filled with deep admiration for her attitude. It was a beautiful, positive way to look at raising a child. I’ve always believed that encouragement is a massive factor in success. It certainly played a huge role in my own career as a journalist. Reflecting on why my reaction was so different from Mumma’s, I realized that as a realist, I was deeply conflicted. I couldn't help but think about the "everyone gets a trophy" culture. I worried about the difference between intrinsic and extrinsic motivation — the idea that if we reward a child for every little thing, or for things they didn't actually achieve, they might grow up expecting a prize just for showing up. I don't want him to develop a sense of entitlement where he only performs if there is a reward waiting at the end. I worried it might hurt his attitude as he grows older and faces a world that doesn't hand out trophies for missed performances. I was conflicted between the "earn your reward" philosophy and my wife’s "showering of love" approach. But for a change, I chose not to impose my logic. His Mumma’s perspective yesterday was so powerful that my logic seemed to fall flat. Thanks for reading. ❤️ Follow for more such stories and experiences from my parenting journey.

MY PARENTING WAS A SUBCONSCIOUS ATTACK I recently realized that my happiness as a young father was accidentally making my mother feel like she failed me. I saw it in her eyes the other night after I’d finished putting my 3-year-old son, Gappa, to bed. “Is Gappa asleep?”, she asked me. “Yes, he slept off in the middle of a story I was telling him,” I told her. “What story did you tell him?” she asked. It was a rare occasion for someone to ask about my storytelling. I excitedly described the elaborate world I had built for him — a trek through the jungle, a dragon confronting us, the two of us quickly eating eggs and chicken to gain "fighting strength," and the good dinosaur that arrived just in time to help us. There was a twinkle in my eyes. I was proud of the "conscious" way I was engaging his imagination, conjuring stories. My mother listened patiently and intently. But when I finished, she said something very calmly, yet with a strange kind of passion: “When you were Gappa’s age, I used to tell you all kinds of stories in the same way.” The conversation suddenly felt much heavier. I realized she wasn't just remembering my own childhood; she was defending herself. There was a hidden meaning in what she said that I couldn't miss. It was as if she was saying: “I also did my best. I was a good mother, too.” It made me stop and think about a tension that has lived in our house ever since I became a father. I realized that every time I talk about how I raise Gappa — how I handle his tantrums, how I prioritize his emotional regulation, or how I look at his learning and future — I am accidentally, and perhaps even subconsciously, accusing her. Deep down, in a place I didn't want to admit, my mother feels like my "new" parenting style is a silent critique of her "old" style. When I show Gappa a "better" way, maybe it comes across as if her way was “wrong”. And it isn’t just about this one moment, and it isn’t just about my mother. I can sense the same thing with my father and my mother-in-law. They all seem to feel the weight of an unspoken blame. The truth is, like many people my age, I grew up blaming my parents for things they did or didn't do. For a long time, I carried a list of their mistakes. A kind of grudge. But over the last few years, and especially since I became a father, my perception has evolved. I see their perspective now. I understand that they didn’t have the time and luxury to sit and overthink every parenting choice like I do. They were raising us while fighting for survival, escaping poverty, and navigating an uncertain world with limited resources. They didn't have the luxury of "conscious parenting." They had the duty of "survival parenting." I realized that I have "forgiven" my parents in my head, but never conveyed it to them. Because I haven't voiced that forgiveness, it stays in the shadow. Every time I offer a "modern" parenting opinion that differs from theirs, they feel the sting of that old blame. Perhaps they feel inferior because our new ways feel superior. This isn't to say our parents were perfect or to whitewash poor choices may parents make. There is plenty to criticise, and I’m sure that one day, Gappa will grow up and find plenty to criticize in me, too. But I’ve realized that my mother needs to hear that I finally understand her. She needs to know that my happiness with my son isn't going to be a secret way of judging or taunting her. As I grow as a father, I’m learning that the most "conscious" thing I can do alongside raising my son is offering grace to the people who raised me. This was a bit different from my usual posts, but I’ve realized that so much of my parenting is actually a conversation with my own childhood. Thanks for reading. ❤️ Follow to join the journey.

MY SON SHOWED ME MERCY My 3-year-old son Gappa has been my "phone police" for a while now. If I am using my phone while playing with him, he’ll demand I keep it away or literally take it from my hands. He’s never been shy about demanding my full attention. But last night, he broke the pattern and left me searching for the logic behind it. Ever since I realized the dangers of phone addiction a couple of years ago, we stopped giving Gappa mobile phones. He usually doesn’t ask for a phone and isn’t addicted. But controlling our own usage in front of him was harder, especially with work-from-home timings. The first time Gappa demanded that I keep my phone away was about a year ago when I was working on my phone while playing with him. Gappa, who had only just started speaking in full sentences, looked at me and said, “Pappa, phone rakho” (Pappa, keep the phone away). I remember feeling a sharp sting of shame. Since then, he’s been doing it frequently. He demands my time and keeps me mindful. As inconvenient as it can be in that moment, I’m actually happy to see him claim his space. But last night was different. I was putting him to sleep, narrating stories to lull him off. Inside, I was in a bit of a hurry. There was some work to be completed on my phone and I wanted to get to it. I think he sensed that urgency and restlessness in my behaviour. For some reason, he fell asleep quicker than usual. As soon as I was sure he was asleep, I reached for my phone. Lying down next to him, I quickly began finishing my work in the dark. But just five minutes later, I felt eyes on me. I looked over and realized Gappa was sitting up quietly, watching my phone screen. I don't know how long he had been awake, just observing me. I felt like I’d been caught red-handed committing a crime. 😁 But before I could put the phone away, he said, “Pappa, phone dekh lo” (Pappa, you may look at your phone). I let out a surprised little laugh, completely baffled by what I’d just heard. But he didn't laugh back. He looked at me with such a straight, serious face that my laugh quickly died down. I quickly tried to keep the phone away, but he repeated it a couple more times. “Nahi Pappa, tum phone dekh lo” (No Pappa, you may look at your phone). I was floored. It felt like he was showing me mercy. Of course, I did keep the phone away, also because I had to put him to sleep again, but I struggled to make sense of what I had just heard. Maybe he had sensed my tension and hurry to put him to sleep earlier. Maybe he knew my mind was on my phone while I was telling him stories. And in his own 3-year-old way, he decided to remove the conflict. Maybe he was protecting our connection by simply removing the thing we were fighting about? I think maybe he isn’t afraid of losing me to the phone anymore. Perhaps he knows he has the power to get my attention whenever he wants, so he felt safe enough to let me indulge with my phone for a while? Maybe he feels more secure with me using a phone than he was a year ago? What do you make of this incident? Let me know in the comments.👇 Thanks for reading. ❤️ Follow for more honest parenting experiences.

I STOLE MY SON’S JOY. ALMOST! Sometimes, as parents, our urge to "set things right" is exactly what kills our children’s creativity. I realised this once again this morning when my 3-year-old son Gappa began reciting the alphabets while casually riding his tricycle. He recently began learning alphabets, and I was happy he was reciting it. "A B C D E F G…" he began. Not only was he getting the letters right, but he was singing them in this fine, sweet tone. It sounded beautiful. But then came the next few letters that caught me by surprise. “L M N O Pee Kee… A B C.” He had completely skipped a bunch of letters and reimagined the P and Q, but it sounded so right. The rhythm was perfect, and the way he closed the loop with "A B C" at the end made it sound like a tiny piece of music he had composed himself. After listening to it a few times and marveling at his creativity, my adult instinct to "correct" him took over. I felt this sudden need to set things right and "teach" him the proper order. From the background, his grandmother added: “You need to correct him, teach him the right things.” So I tried. “Gappa, it is actually A B C D E F G H… I J K L M N O P… Q R S T U V W….” He listened patiently initially, but by the time I was halfway through, he cut me off impatiently. “No, that doesn’t sound good. Sing like me,” he said. At that moment, I stopped trying to teach him the “right” way. I decided to sing it his way instead of correcting him. By insisting on the "right" way, wasn’t I just obstructing his creativity and interrupting his sense of music? He only turned three a month ago. What’s the hurry? I remembered that he is much more likely to learn anything if he actually enjoys the process. Right now, he isn’t just memorizing letters; he’s finding joy in them. After all, how many kids do we see who go to school and don’t eventually learn the alphabet? It’ll happen when it’s supposed to happen. As parents, we are under so much pressure to hit "milestones." But is it worth it if we lose the joy along the way? What do you think? 💭

I FAILED TO “TOUGHEN UP” MY SON Yesterday, I tried nurturing a competitive spirit in my son, but he ended up teaching me what a real winner looks like. It started when we bought a new toy for my 3-year-old son, Gappa. It’s a classic magnetic fishing game. There’s a rotating plastic plate filled with little fish that pop their heads up and open their mouths. You have to use a tiny fishing rod with a magnet at the end to catch them before they close their jaws. It’s a game built for speed, timing and focus. I saw this as a parenting opportunity to nurture a bit of a competitive spirit in him. So I decided to turn it into a race. I divided the fishes into two "lakes" and explained the rules. “Whoever catches all seven fish from their lake and puts them in their bowl first, wins," I told him. Gappa nodded happily, appearing to understand the challenge. As we started, my competitive nature took over. I was acting all hurried, egging him on to empty his lake quickly. But I was also being a father; I pretended to struggle, faking that I couldn't catch my fish, just to give him the lead. I wanted him to feel the rush of being ahead in the race. But what followed was very different from what I had expected. Gappa didn't see a race. He saw a shared experience. Every time he caught a fish, he would stop and wait for me to catch mine. When he saw me "struggling" to catch my fishes, he didn't use that time to get ahead and win. Instead, he reached over with his own rod to help me catch my fish on my behalf. I kept pushing him: "Quickly! Catch your fish and empty your lake! Win the race!" But he just wouldn't go ahead. He insisted on waiting until we were both at the very last fish. He refused to pick his last one until I picked mine. Eventually, since he wouldn't move, I finally placed my last fish in the bowl to end the game. Technically, I "won." And you should have seen the joy on his face. He started laughing and squealing in pure delight. "Pappa jeet gaya! (Pappa has won)” he screamed, genuinely happy because I had won. There was no trace of disappointment or sense of "I lost." In that moment, Gappa was practicing something many adults spend a lifetime trying to regain: the rare ability to find genuine happiness in someone else's success. I realized then that while I was trying to nurture a "killer instinct" for a competitive world, he was showing me the power of empathy. I was trying to "fix" a lack of competition in him, but his nature was already something far more beautiful. Eventually, life will teach him that competition is practical and necessary. But as I watched him celebrate my "win," I wondered if a child who sticks to such a nature wouldn't be the ultimate "winner" in life anyway. By the way, Gappa actually won his first real competition recently - a fancy dress contest at his play school. A couple of months ago, I had shared another post about how my wife and I shed our laziness to dress him up as a joker who spreads joy. We recently got the results, and he won. Or maybe we, as parents, were the ones who won. Gappa won a contest for being a character who makes people happy, while I am sitting there worrying if he was "tough" enough to win a fishing race. Thanks for reading. ❤️ Follow for more such parenting experiences and stories.

“BUT ICE-CREAM IS GOOD.” "But ice-cream is good," my son Gappa insisted, his eyes wide with genuine shock. To a three-year-old child, “good" means tasty. He couldn't understand how something so delicious could be "bad." Early this month, I was looking at Gappa’s homework. The task was to stick images of three healthy and three unhealthy food items in his notebook. Instead of just doing the work for him, I decided to draw the items myself and let him paint them. I wanted him involved, not just watching me use a glue stick. As we started, I realized that in his world, there was no concept of nutrition. He didn't protest when I drew eggs, chicken, and fruits. He accepted that these were "good" foods because I said so. But the moment I drew ice-cream, chocolates, and French fries, the conflict began. "No, ice-cream is good," he kept repeating. He was visibly surprised. In his logic, if it makes his taste buds happy, it must be "good." I tried explaining that sugar is bad, but "sugar" is an abstract concept for a toddler. So, I chose a word he loves: STRONG. I began repeatedly telling him that good food makes him strong, and bad food makes him not-strong. I couldn’t convince him that day, but it made me realize something worrisome. We live in a world where tasty, processed, and unhealthy food is everywhere — it’s affordable and only 10 minutes away. Unless he learns the difference now, he’s likely to choose unhealthy and tasty food over healthy food. So, I started weaving this lesson into his favorite part of the day: bedtime stories. When I told him stories about dinosaurs, I changed the plot. The "good" dinosaurs ate eggs and chicken to become powerful. The "weak" dinosaurs were the ones who ate chocolates and ice-cream every day. Every time I mentioned ice-cream, he still countered me with the “but ice-cream is good” defence. So, I began telling him: "Ice-creams are okay sometimes, but the weak dinosaurs ate it everyday." In my stories, Gappa would pop a couple of eggs or a banana just when he was losing a big fight with a dragon or a dinosaur. That’s what gave him the magical strength to beat them up and win. Also, if he asked for something unhealthy, I wouldn’t say an outright no, but I made sure to label it clearly: "This is bad food; it won’t make you strong." Meanwhile, I’d eat an apple in front of him and tell him, "Look, Pappa is becoming strong." Or I would put away Diet Coke and say it made me not-strong. This morning, my wife and I realized something amazing. It has been days since Gappa even asked for an ice-cream or chocolate, forget eating them. He’s been eating home-cooked, healthy meals without many tantrums. Most importantly, he has stopped craving the processed stuff. Gappa turned three just a month ago. If we get careless, he might go back to unhealthy habits later. But for now, the images of "strong" vs. "weak" food are getting ingrained in his mind. And what enters the mind at this age usually sticks for life. At least, that’s what I’m hoping. Thanks for reading. ❤️ Follow for more such parenting stories and experiences.

The Tiffin Box is a ‘Security Guard’ I was about to pack the school bag of my 3-year-old son Gappa this morning when his Mumma asked what I had packed for his meal. Since my mother is visiting, she had made a small dal-paratha and another paratha with khoya stuffing. I had also put a banana in the school bag. To me, it looked like a solid, filling meal. But his Mumma wanted to see the presentation. “Why does it look incomplete? Why haven’t you given him any chutney or sides?” she asked, a little irritated. I was confused. “Why would he need anything else? He can eat these just fine without sides.” Her next question left me confused: “But what will his teachers think?” “What will his teachers think?” I asked back a little perplexed. “Won’t they think we don’t care enough for our child? Will they show care for Gappa if we parents ourselves don't seem involved?” Initially, I felt she was overthinking, and perhaps overdoing. Should presentation matter so much when it comes to a 3-year-old’s meal? Ideally, no. But in the real world, it most likely does. I realised that Mumma wasn't just talking about chutney. She was talking about accountability. Teachers are often overworked and exhausted. When they open a tiffin box that is thoughtfully packed and looks well-rounded, it sends a subconscious signal that “this child has a powerful advocate at home." In a way, the tiffin box acts as a security guard. It tells the teacher that someone is watching. It signals that if this child is mistreated or ignored, a parent will notice and show up at the school gate the very next morning. This brief interaction with my wife reminded me of a reel I saw recently where a teacher opened students' tiffins to showcase the lack of nutrition. It made me wonder about that teacher in the reel. Does she treat the "well-fed" kids differently? Human nature suggests she might. A teacher is much more likely to stay attentive to a child when they see the parents are fully involved. This shows up in the little things like picking and dropping them, helping with homework, enquiring about progress, or packing a nutritious meal. When the world perceives a parent as "not involved," it can lead to a callous attitude toward the child. It is the same reason why anyone is far less likely to overstep or mistreat a child when they see a parent who is highly observant. It’s a harsh truth and a subconscious bias that shouldn't exist, but such is life. By insisting on the need for the tiffin box to look good, Gappa’s Mumma was actually building a shield around our son. I am grateful to her for caring about these little details. It took me until this morning to see how much these "small" things actually matter for a child’s future. Thanks for reading. ❤️

I failed the "Patient Pappa" test Last week was difficult for us due to a medical emergency in the family. We are back home now and the relative is doing better, but the first few chaotic hours stripped away the “patient pappa” I try so hard to be around my three-year-old son, Gappa. While we were waiting outside the hospital’s emergency section, I took it upon myself to look after him. Gappa is very active and needs constant supervision to stay safe. It’s a task that drains most people, so I took up the responsibility. In any case, the circumstances were such that there was no one else to share the load. For the next eight hours, he was his most energetic self. Jumping everywhere, climbing parapets, running down slopes, putting mud in my hands and hair, what not. He would even go up and talk to strangers who were, understandably, too worried about their own loved ones to respond. At home, things are child-proofed and we have a routine. But the hospital setting was different. The waiting area was essentially a small park filled with pipes and rods jutting out, small gaps in the drains, and an adjacent road with running vehicles. I couldn’t simply watch him from a distance. I had to be within arm’s reach every moment. Initially, it was manageable. But as the hours passed, it became increasingly challenging. Gappa skipped his nap, which made him even more restless. By the time it got dark, the constant running after him left me mentally exhausted. The stress of the medical situation, the endless phone calls, and simultaneously managing things on the ground made it even harder to stay patient. This was when I began to lose my calm. My tone with him started changing. And when Gappa eventually fell and bruised his elbow and knee, my frustration only increased, making my voice even harsher. By 9 pm, I had lost my temper with him at least three times. Each time, I ended up scolding him in a way I now realise was ugly, a way in which I was not fully in control of myself. It was a sharp and painful contrast to the patience I have almost always showed him. I knew I was being unfair, but I just couldn’t stop myself. The thing is, Gappa was only being active and playful. He never complained once. He didn’t cry or throw a tantrum even after getting hurt. He would occasionally show me his bruises, not to complain, but simply out of curiosity about what had happened to his skin. While driving back home, while Gappa was asleep, I told a relative how guilty I felt about losing my cool with the child. He tried to reassure me and, with complete sincerity, said it was alright to scold children so they learn what not to do. “Doesn’t a child need scolding from time to time?” he said. I know he meant well. But I think that advice comes from our own childhood conditioning. The truth is, my response to Gappa that day depended entirely on my mood. When we are calm, we tend to overlook even the behaviour that needs correction. When we are frustrated, we react disproportionately. And that’s exactly what I did. There is a difference between a father being stern for his child’s safety and a father simply removing his frustration on his child. Ideally, my mind should remain calm even when my voice has to be firm. Correction should come from concern, not from emotional overflow. I have read about it and understand this deeply. I try to live by it with Gappa. Yet that evening, under pressure, all that understanding vanished, and I let my emotions take over. This is a lesson I need to carry with me as Gappa grows. As he seeks more freedom and tests his boundaries, the real challenge won’t just be in guiding him, but in mastering myself. My ability to stay calm may be the greatest gift I can give him. Thanks for reading. ❤️