Jottings about my daughter (2)
It was a sunny Sunday and to keep our words to her, after breakfast we took our daughter to the park. She was in high spirits and busied herself from the swings to the children’s slide, from the seesaw to the flower garden. My husband and I followed her here and there, with tired smiles on our faces.
The sun became more scorching as the noontime came nearer. I was thinking how to trick my girl into some more relaxing activity. Then I noticed the place where the monkeys were kept. It was right under the luring cool shade of some big trees.
“Come on, honey, let’s watch the monkeys.” I called out.
“Monkeys? Gee, I’m coming….” She ran up to the monkeys’ pen in a dancing way.
There were about a dozen monkeys there, some big and strong, some quick and nimble. The tourists were throwing all kinds of food to the monkeys. We saw a mother monkey carried her baby monkey while jumping from rock to rock, and when they stopped the mother monkey combed her baby’s hair. I smiled at this show of maternal love. My daughter was also fascinated by them and watched with deep interest.
“Mum, give me a peach, let’s feed that poor monkey.” My daughter pointed to one of the monkeys. Following my girl’s figure, I noticed two monkeys in one corner of the pen. Whenever some food was thrown down, one of them would just stepped backward instead of forward, to give way to the other particularly big and strong one. This triggered the sympathy in my daughter’s small heart. I encouraged her sympathetic character. We threw several piece of peach just in front of him. But to our dismay, each time he just shrank back timidly and the peach was grabbed away. He couldn’t get even one of them. My sympathy was gradually giving way to disappointment and anger. My daughter was still patiently trying to throw the food closer to him. I stopped her.
“Honey, you see, so many people are giving so much food while he still can not get anything to eat, that’s because he won’t fight. God only helps those who help themselves. We can not help him.” Said my husband. And that was right what I wanted to tell my dear daughter.
“Just like our society, competition exists everywhere. Only those who are tougher and braver, and willing to work harder can live a better life. “ I resumed with our education, sort of self-satisfied for finding such a good chance to squeeze the concept of competition into my daughter’s head. We sometimes think our daughter is too soft-hearted, too good-natured, too mild, too docile for this competitive world she is living in.
“He’s so timid, he only knows giving up and retreating. It serves him right to be starved.” A man at about my own age furthered this theory of survival of the fittest to his son, at about my girl’s age.
“I don’t think it is being timid,” after a long silence, my girl looked at my eyes, and said softly, “Maybe she is that big one’s old mother. Mothers always give the best food to their children. Like you, my dear mummy.”
