Spice of life: From stickler for rules to teddy in white coat
Then came the third grandchild. The tiny tornado with curly hair and a lion’s heart. He arrived like a meteor—noisy, joyful, demanding—and the very foundations of Nana’s fortress of discipline began to tremble
Doctor Sandhu was once the man no one trifled with. Stern, razor-sharp, and unsparing with both words and expectations, he built his life around three sacred pillars: Academics, discipline and duty. He could silence a room with one glance and motivate an entire household with a single, strategically timed cough.
As a flourishing physician, occasional political dabbler, and globetrotting intellectual, his energy was legendary. His daughters grew up toeing the line, bolstered by weekly spelling tests, colour-coded revision charts, and the ever-looming threat of: “No outings until final exams are over.” School attendance was non-negotiable — even on rainy days, with fevers and the flu.
Then came the third grandchild. The tiny tornado with curly hair and a lion’s heart. He arrived like a meteor—noisy, joyful, demanding—and the very foundations of Nana’s fortress of discipline began to tremble.
It started with a roar. One day, the little imp marched up to Nana and let out his fiercest, chest-thumping “ROAAAAAR!” A theatrical lion’s call delivered with baby gusto and dramatic flair. We all braced for the customary verbal takedown — the type that could make grown-ups apologise for being born. Instead, Nana blinked. Then, smiling — smiling— he said, “OMG! Calm down, Lion Akaal… you’ll scare me!”
The room fell silent. Somewhere, a medical textbook exploded and a patient fainted in shock.
From that moment on, the transformation was complete. The man who once prided himself on giving injections without flinching now willingly subjected himself to sound effects before breakfast. The roaring is routine but so are other jungle sounds. The performances, elaborate.
And Nana, the great disciplinarian, sits through them all, clapping like a delighted stage mom. The rules? Abandoned.
The man who never let his daughters miss a single day of school now quivers when his grandson returns from playschool with a tear in his eye. “Isn’t he too little for this?” he asks with genuine anguish. “Let him stay home, let him play, what’s the rush?” His daughters gape at this new, squishy-hearted man, wondering if they’re hallucinating. Was this the same person who once made one of them take the medical college examinations just before her wedding?
And when the little one has so much as a cold — oh, the drama! A panel of specialists is swiftly assembled. Calls are made across the city and, on occasion, time zones. Pediatricians are consulted. Home remedies are debated. Nana, the once-dreaded diagnostician, stands at the centre of this medical emergency as though managing an ICU unit—while the patient himself gleefully demonstrates his lion’s roar to each visiting doctor, clapping for himself like a seasoned entertainer between acts.
Meanwhile, the boy’s toy collection expands like a Fortune 500 company. Others return from trips abroad with French perfume, Scotch whiskey, or stylish scarves. Dr Sandhu? He brings toys. Mountains of them. Customs officers know him by name and occasionally ask if he’s opening a pre-school. Trains that light up, trucks that sing, talking books, flying cars — you name it, he’s got three.
As they say in Punjabi, “Mool ton vyaj hamesha wadh ke hunda ae” — the interest is always dearer than the principal. And our roaring, tumbling, toy-testing little imp, is the golden interest that’s turned the fierce stickler for rules into a teddy bear in a white coat.
Once feared, now fiercely hugged. Once stoic, now stuffed with treats and stuffed animals. Dr Sandhu still writes prescriptions. But these days, the most important one in the house is simple: One daily dose of Nana and a whole lot of ROAAAAR! punamsidhu@gmail.com
The writer is a Chandigarh-based former Indian Revenue Service officer
