Son Of A Flame Rider

When I was younger and physically strong (the kind of strength where I could lift one side of a tractor, much like the technique taught today for picking up a BMW R 1200—back against it, using your thighs to lift the bike off the ground in case you’ve been careless enough to drop it and bite the dirt).

As a young soul full of questions, confusions, and firmly held beliefs about things I didn’t fully understand, my quest for answers often led me into spirited arguments with the man who shared his DNA with me—my father.

” mai tera peyo haan ke tu mere peyo hain?” (Am I your father or are you, my father?)

In my quest for detailed understanding, I would argue endlessly. Back then, if the elders ever found themselves unable to answer a question, the protocol was straightforward.

As per the Standard Operating Procedure (SOP) of the time, I often received a few well-placed blows right over my ears, accompanied by a muffled question drowned in the sound of whistles ringing in my head: “Mai tera peyo haan ke tu mere peyo hain?” (Am I your father, or are you mine?). How many times the bells rang, I couldn’t say—not for lack of trying to count, but because I quickly realised it was a futile effort. The blows seemed to ricochet to other parts of my body, and my father, as it turned out, was equally adept with both his left and right hands.

I am not as strong as my father, but I am tough. As soon as I recovered from the stupor brought on by the blows, I mustered the courage to answer the simple question posed to me. My reply was:

“My reply was, ‘Je sariyaan de piyo apney mundia tou zyada siana hunday, te socho Galileo de piyo kina siana hona chahida si! Te assi, hawai jahaazaan tou gadian te aa jandey. Par assi tuhadey gadeyaan tou jahaj te chaley gai haan!’ (If every father were wiser than his son, imagine how brilliant Galileo’s father must have been! Instead of progressing from planes to bullock carts, we’ve moved from your bullock carts to planes!).”

‘Tuseen ainey thapad maar ni sakdey, jiney mai khaa sakda waa!’ (You can’t deliver as many blows as I can take).”

My father, a true Jat and a seasoned soldier, showcased his battle prowess once again, and for a moment, it felt as though an entire armed regiment had descended upon me! Determined to break his confidence, I boldly declared, “Tuseen ainey thapad maar ni sakdey, jiney mai khaa sakda waa” (You can’t deliver as many blows as I can take). To my surprise—and, of course, my great relief—he immediately stopped.ed.

He looked at me intensely, and I’m certain he could see in my moist eyes the unmistakable reflection of the shared madness between us. This madness was the unyielding bond that tied us together as father and son—a force beyond words. And even now, I carry every bit of that madness within me.

All the while, I was desperately trying to stop my tears from rolling down my cheeks, silently thanking God for his small mercies. Every adversity has its advantages, I thought, because any stray drop that might have escaped evaporated almost instantly, leaving no trace. My cheeks were so hot, they seemed to vaporise any liquid, like water on a hot plate. I was flushing, my face burning with heat, and deep down, I worried that if he saw the tears, he would lose respect for me. After all, I had been taught that men don’t cry!

I knew that when he walked away into the darkness and retired to his room, he was proud, content in the knowledge that he had sired a true son of a flame rider—someone who couldn’t be knocked out easily. As I stood there, feeling like Rocky Balboa with flushed cheeks and a numbness that spread through me, the echoes of whistles still rang in my ears, like the theme track from all the Rocky movies: Ain’t Going Down No More. It was one of those moments, raw and defining.

I was relieved that it was finally over and, in an odd way, content that I walked away from that experience with a minor disability—a peculiar one, mind you. Whenever I breathed, I could feel the wind blowing out of my left ear. Yes, I did try holding my nose, blowing as hard as I could, and sure enough, there was air escaping from my ear instead of my face swelling up with the air trapped in my lungs. I was more concerned about that than I should have been, especially since I was training to be a pilot. This couldn’t be good for my medicals.

I was passionate about flying, and this issue with my ear could mean the end of a dream I had nurtured for so long. I was furious—furious with my ancient DNA, furious with everything. In my frustration, I decided to steal a case of rum from my dad’s reserves and hide it in the haystack shed behind our cattle shed. That case of rum played a pivotal role in numbing the pain and soothing my bruised ego.

Many years later, technology advanced at such a rapid pace that it was evolving from years to months, to weeks. I found myself in a similar discussion with someone half my age. By that time, I had already resolved—thanks to the stolen drinks—that I would never again question the intelligence of the next generation.

I found myself caught in the same dilemma that my father must have faced. Here I was, in a situation where I couldn’t stand by and let the youngster go astray without my paternal instinct kicking in to protect them. Yet, true to my resolve, I gave it serious thought. And thanks to those stolen drinks hidden behind the cowshed, I gave myself a couple of weeks to reflect. In that time, I was able to see the other side of the argument and, much to my surprise, fathom that I might actually be wrong.

Thanks to the stolen drinks, which, while consuming them, led me to think that my father should have waited to hear me out completely before reacting, I made a resolve to think before acting on anything. I haven’t mastered it completely, but I do try.

The world is changing faster than the experiences we often regard as holy knowledge—those hard-earned lessons cherished by older people as the achievements of a lifetime. These are things that can’t be acquired by reading a self-help book, but by living life and going through its ups and downs. Yet, in this fast-evolving period, those experiences expire much quicker, becoming obsolete in the blink of an eye. Our once-valuable life lessons, honed through years of experience, seem almost meaningless now. Most of it is out there on platforms like ChatGPT, which might even offer better advice than we ever could. It’s a strange feeling, a sense of obsolescence creeping in. Gone are the days when we could resort to the old SOPs, vent our anger, and feel superior again. The world has shifted, and so too have the rules of engagement.

“An old flip phone to connect to a 5G network”

Now, the whole episode boils down to a simple, yet profound question: If a person younger than you passes on some knowledge, would you decipher it as an upload or a download of information? It’s a funny thought, isn’t it? I mean, back in the day, we’d have considered it an upload, the kind of wisdom that was “loaded” into us after years of living life. But now, with technology moving at the speed of light, suddenly, we’re the ones downloading information from younger generations, who are practically born with smartphones in hand and a Google search bar permanently etched into their DNA.

I imagine it’s like one of those weird, futuristic sci-fi movies where the younger generation is giving us old folks life advice, and we just sit there like, “Wait a minute, wasn’t I the one supposed to be the wisdom server here?” It’s a bit humbling, to say the least.

But then, you start to wonder, am I just downloading the latest “Life 101” update, or is this some sort of cheeky attempt to upload my old, outdated knowledge into their supercharged systems? Are they the ones teaching me, or am I just buffering slowly while they’re streaming in real time? Either way, it’s a bit like trying to use an old flip phone to connect to a 5G network—things don’t quite match up, and suddenly, you’re feeling like the relic of a bygone era.