Treat your kid like a darling for the first five years. For the

Host: The afternoon sun slanted through the half-drawn curtains, spilling a gold warmth across the small living room. Dust motes floated lazily in the light — like tiny reminders of the time that never truly stops moving.

On the table, there were two mugs of tea, a pile of old school photographs, and a torn report card — relics from a life that had passed through laughter, rebellion, and quiet forgiveness.

Jack stood near the window, arms folded, watching the street below — children chasing a battered football, their voices echoing through the narrow alleyway. His face was calm, but his eyes carried the weight of something unspoken.

Across from him, Jeeny sat on the couch, her hands wrapped around her mug, her eyes soft with thought. There was a tenderness in the air — the kind that only appears when two people are talking about family, love, and the silent ache of time.

The fan hummed quietly above them, slicing the stillness into gentle, rhythmic pieces.

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “Chanakya once said, ‘Treat your kid like a darling for the first five years. For the next five years, scold them. By the time they turn sixteen, treat them like a friend. Your grown-up children are your best friends.’”

Jack: (snorts softly) “Sounds like he’s been spying on every parent on the planet.”

Jeeny: “He’s right though. It’s not just about parenting — it’s about how love has to evolve if it wants to survive.”

Jack: (turns from the window) “Yeah, well, tell that to my old man. His idea of love was a lecture and a long stare.”

Host: His voice carried no bitterness, just a quiet humor that barely concealed the hurt underneath.

Jeeny: (gently) “You never told me much about him.”

Jack: (shrugs) “Not much to tell. He was… strict. The kind of man who thought discipline was the only language worth speaking. When I was five, he was my hero. When I was ten, he was my enemy. And by the time I was sixteen, I just wanted him to be my friend.”

Host: The sunlight shifted, falling across the photos on the table — Jack at eight, his face smeared with mud, holding a broken trophy; Jack at fifteen, scowling in a school uniform that seemed to fit his defiance more than his frame.

Jeeny: “Did he ever become that?”

Jack: (pauses) “No. He never figured out that last part. By the time I was old enough to talk to him as a person, we’d forgotten how.”

Jeeny: (sighs softly) “That’s the tragedy, isn’t it? Parents forget that authority is supposed to be temporary. They’re meant to raise adults, not followers.”

Jack: “Yeah, but try explaining that to someone who believes respect means fear.”

Host: The sound of children laughing outside grew louder, their game tumbling closer to the window. One boy tripped, scraped his knee, and got up again without tears. The streetlight caught the tiny spark of courage in him.

Jeeny: (watching) “That’s how it starts, you know. You hold them when they cry, you scold them when they need strength, and if you do it right — they come back when they’re old enough to understand why you did it.”

Jack: (quietly) “You sound like you’ve lived it.”

Jeeny: “I have. My mother was all softness when I was little. But after I turned six, she became the storm. Every mistake — every wrong turn — she met it with words sharper than knives. I used to think she hated me.”

Jack: “And now?”

Jeeny: (smiles faintly) “Now I know she was trying to make sure the world didn’t.”

Host: Her eyes glistened in the amber light. Jack didn’t speak — just nodded, the silence between them stretching, thick with understanding.

Jeeny: “But the best part was later. When I turned sixteen, she started asking me questions — like I was her equal. It was strange at first. I kept waiting for the old discipline, but it never came. She started to listen. That’s when I realized I’d finally earned her trust.”

Jack: (half-smiling) “And you didn’t rebel?”

Jeeny: “Of course I did. But not against her — against the world she was preparing me for.”

Host: Outside, a breeze stirred the curtains, carrying with it the faint scent of monsoon earth — that mix of decay and renewal that smells like the truth.

Jack: “You know, I think that’s what scares me most — the idea that someday I’ll have a kid who looks at me the way I used to look at my father. Half love, half rebellion.”

Jeeny: “Then do it differently, Jack. Don’t just raise them. Grow with them.”

Jack: (sits down, rubbing his temples) “That’s easy to say. Harder when you’re watching them turn into someone who doesn’t need you anymore.”

Jeeny: “But isn’t that the point? To make them strong enough to walk away — and gentle enough to come back?”

Host: The light outside began to fade; the room shifted into that soft, bluish twilight that makes memories feel close enough to touch.

Jack: “It’s funny,” he said quietly. “When I was young, I thought parents were supposed to be infallible. But now I realize — they’re just children who got older without an instruction manual.”

Jeeny: (laughing softly) “Exactly. Every generation trying to fix what the last one broke — and breaking something new in the process.”

Jack: “So you think Chanakya was right? That love has phases — soft, hard, equal?”

Jeeny: “Not just love — life. You nurture, you challenge, and then you let go. It’s how everything grows. Even people.”

Host: The clock ticked quietly. The world outside had turned to blue shadow and streetlight. Somewhere, a distant train horn moaned — a reminder that all journeys eventually move forward.

Jack reached for one of the old photos, staring at his own childhood face. He smiled — not sadly, but with the kind of warmth that comes from understanding what once hurt.

Jack: “Maybe I’ll call him tonight.”

Jeeny: (softly) “Your father?”

Jack: (nods) “Yeah. Maybe it’s time to treat him like a friend.”

Host: Jeeny’s smile deepened, quiet and approving. The light from the street spilled across the room, brushing their faces with a soft glow — two people caught in the in-between of what was and what could still be healed.

Jeeny: “That’s what Chanakya meant, Jack. Love matures when it stops needing to be obeyed — and starts learning to listen.”

Jack: (after a long silence) “Then maybe we all just spend our lives trying to learn that — how to love without control, how to guide without chains.”

Jeeny: “And how to forgive without forgetting.”

Host: The fan spun above them, the air thick with the scent of tea, dust, and reconciliation.

Outside, the children’s laughter faded as the first streetlights flickered on. The game was over, but their voices lingered — small, joyful echoes of what every childhood once was.

Jack and Jeeny sat quietly, the photos between them like a bridge of memory.

And in the soft dimness, surrounded by the past, they found a small, radiant truth — that love, like parenting, is not about control, or correction, but companionship.

And when done right — it doesn’t just raise a child.

It raises both of you.