“’Rehabilitated’? Well, now, let me see. You know, I don't have any idea what that means ... I know what you think it means, sonny. To me, it's just a made up word. A politician's word, so young fellas like yourself can wear a suit and a tie, and have a job."

- Frank Darabont, The Shawshank Redemption, from novella by Stephen King

Much like Shawshank's rehabilitation, “visitation” is a made up legal word that allows powerful people in robes to measure the depth of an estranged parent's love for a child and translate it to time allowed with the child using discretionary powers.

A father may have been the best dad in the world; he may have been as equally involved in the child's upbringing as the mother when they were together, but if, for any reason, he is estranged from the mother, he is automatically relegated to the status of a visitor in his child's life. With this begins a multi-year saga of trying to reconnect with his child. In India, regardless of the quality of the relationship that existed between the father and the child, if the mother contests the case, the father's first access is usually a few minutes somewhere in Court or at the mother's residence and permitted by the Court only after a year or more of litigation. Several fathers are not allowed to see their children even after several years as the mother is granted repeated adjournments and ultimately give up.

My first visitation order permitting me to see my child was no different. I obtained it after about a year of litigation and I was allowed two hours in the Court playroom with my child, supervised by the mother and her lawyers. The Court playroom is a small space, about 50 square feet, with a few faded posters of planets, birds, animals, fruits and vegetables on the walls. It had a small ride-on toy car that was unusable because of a broken axle. It had a see-saw and a slide. The car and the see-saw have since been discarded. If my words above sound like an ungrateful rant, they are anything but. The playroom and its furnishings were made possible by the local High Court's generosity. Considering that most litigating fathers over the country only have drab, functioning Court halls in which to see their children, a child-friendly space, however modest or dysfunctional, is a big step forward in the right direction. (As an aside, I subsequently met the supervisor with a proposal to improve the playroom but I was politely turned down with a remark that I should sort out my personal litigation first before worrying about larger issues).

If the walls of the playroom could talk, they would tell you some of the happiest as well as the most poignant stories you are likely to hear. These walls have seen waiting parents and grandparents break down in tears of joy as they first see their children and then hug them. They have seen the faces of those children light up as they remember the people who were once part of their everyday life. They have seen separated siblings reunite. The walls have also witnessed puzzled children and heartbroken parents being separated as their allotted time together expires. They have seen families arguing and fighting violently. They have seen alienated children blinded by false hate refusing to go to their estranged parents. They have seen time with a child being traded for money. They have seen confused children overwhelmed by the cacophony of the alien environment as lawyers and litigants scramble and squabble.

The playroom walls, much like Amir's Afghanistan in The Kite Runner, have seen a lot of children, but not enough childhood.

These walls determined the boundaries of the space my child and I pretended was home over the next few weeks. Any attempt to venture beyond them would be contempt of court.

When I obtained the order, my biggest predicament was deciding what toys to purchase. Without access to my child for several years, I had no idea about his preferences. Over the next few days, I discreetly surveyed my friends who had children of similar age. I researched the best selling toys online. I visited several toy stores all over the city and may have even stalked unsuspecting toddlers to see what they purchased. I thought of every toy I had got for him when he was with me, and I tried to imagine what he might like now.

Ask any parent in this situation and he will tell you how hard it is to reconnect with a child that is badly alienated. Our first meeting was no different, and I may write about it in detail later, for I remember every word that was exchanged between my child and I. Suffice it to say that, in the end, not only did the two of us have a great time but we also managed to attract several other kids with whom we sharing the playroom that day.

I went to the Court an hour early and waited with all the toys I had. I waited by the window until I finally saw him. I rushed to the door to see him walking down the aisle, with the same curious eyes I remembered so well. He was just as I last saw him, only taller and thinner. I ran up to him and carried him. He blankly looked at me, then searched deep inside my eyes. I might have imagined the first hint of a smile of recognition.

“Do you remember me? Do you remember Papa?”, I asked, my voice quivering with excitement.

“Uncle”, he bluntly replied, “Uncle”.

He had been instructed to call me “Uncle”. I told him a couple of times that I was Papa, not Uncle.

“Uncle, not Papa”, he parroted.

I pointed out the other kids who were calling their fathers Papa. He was confused. I decided that there was nothing in a name anyway, and to simply make the most of the remaining time.

This was also the first time my parents were seeing their only grandchild after a glimpse one and a half years ago. They were elated. The circumstances of the meeting didn't seem to matter. The happiness was so thick in the room you felt like you could reach up, grab some puffs, and stuff them in your pockets, where they would safely remain.

I like to think that, buried among all their stories, the playroom walls might still echo my child's bubbly laughter as we started playing together. They might remember that hot summer day with half a dozen of the happiest children they had ever seen playing with an assortment of toys ranging from radio-controlled vehicles, magic coloring books, Play-Doh, jigsaw puzzles, fairy tale books and action figures as their fathers looked on. There may even have been a couple of small water guns I had smuggled in and filled up at the Court's restroom. Hearing the cacophony, the Court's staff came in and even played with the R/C jeeps and enquired where I got them from.

But all good things come to an end. Our allotted time together ended. My boy had to be coaxed by his mother into leaving. He refused to, always asking for “one more minute”, to which her lawyer graciously agreed once. Finally, his mother had enough, and told him sternly that the doors would shut and he would have to remain there alone if he didn't leave with her.

Now, it is no secret that every little child knows grown-ups are notoriously unreliable. He looked at me as if to verify the truth of that statement with another adult. It was evident he wanted me to say something -- anything -- that would let us be together for more time. I stood there, rooted to the floor. I tried to open my mouth, but no words would escape. Everyone was watching, as if it were that scene from a Bollywood flick where the hero is on the cusp of a feat of strength. What happened was anti-climactic. My silence was enough evidence for him to believe his mother and he plodded his way to the door, looking back all the time. He turned back to say, “You also come to my house tomorrow, ok, Papa?”.

PAPA!

My heart skipped a beat.

“Did you hear that? He called me Papa! He called me Papa!”, I exclaimed. Everyone smiled.

I quickly promised him I would return. But the order had expired, and I had to wait again for several months to reestablish contact with my child. I finally kept up my promise not the next day but many months later. The memory of this goodbye gave me the strength to continue living until I would get another order.

“How was the visitation? How was the reunion with your child?", a lawyer asked me.

"Thank you. I don't know what to say", I blurted out, "I waited for this moment for so long. I am feeling so much joy that I think my heart will burst."

“Reunion”? “Visitation”? This was no reunion. I was no visitor. My child and I were never apart. He was always within me, and I within him.

We were just pretending, so we could fool all those grown-ups who believe a child could really be separated from his father.

Disclaimer: The opinions expressed in this post are the personal views of the author. They do not necessarily reflect the views of Momspresso.com. Any omissions or errors are the author's and Momspresso does not assume any liability or responsibility for them.

