S tugs at my arm and points to a bubble blower, and I hand him the money without thinking. He lifts it, blows a stream of bubbles, and watches them drift away. Then, in the same breath, he tells me he wants to start shaving, so the faint moustache coming in can grow stronger. My sister-in-law laughs, half-teasingly, that boys with moustaches don’t blow bubbles. S looks a little embarrassed, probably wondering if he’s supposed to feel proud or silly.
He’s 15, almost a man, but puberty hits him in ways he doesn’t understand. One day, he is completely normal, and the next, he’s tossed onto this emotional roller coaster that seems to have no brakes, and I am unable to catch him. To me, signs of puberty are visible in small things. The way he enrolled in music class with quiet excitement, only for his voice to crack mid-song like a broken speaker. He keeps going to the class, but I see the hesitation, the embarrassment creeping in.
I know he has to go through this himself. I have always been the one to taste the food first, test the world, take the first step, but this is different. There’s no shortcut for him. All I can do is stand here quietly, letting him find his own way. A friend once casually remarked, “Yeh teenager gyaani aatmaein… who will argue with them?” And I can’t help but laugh. It’s true. Teenagers often carry that strange and annoying mix of confidence and confusion, thinking they know it all while figuring out almost nothing.
As a mother, I keep reminding myself that a little hygiene guidance goes a long way, and a teen’s checklist is a mix of deodorant, showering, and clean clothes because, as he tries to navigate his moods, at least he can smell like a human being.
But there’s one thing I can’t leave to chance, and that’s sex education. The other day, I overheard him joking with friends about a date. It stayed with me longer than I expected, because I realised I hadn’t really talked to him about it yet. I’d been waiting for some “right moment”, but it didn’t come. He’s already learning nuggets of information from friends, from the internet, from everywhere, loud and confident, but often wrong and dangerous.
A few nights later, we watch a film where teenage relationships are treated lightly until suddenly they aren’t. I ask him casually what he’s heard about relationships or sex. He’s embarrassed, and I swear I can almost see smoke coming out of his ears. On a lighter note, what he doesn’t see is that I’m on fire over this conversation in trying to get it right. He shrugs and says it’s mostly nonsense, that people exaggerate. When I press gently, he admits it’s about what guys are “supposed” to do, like it’s some kind of performance. I ask what he thinks, he hesitates. “I don’t know. It’s confusing.”
I let that hang there. “Yeah,” I say finally, “it can be.” I try to keep it simple and repeat words like respect, consent, and figuring things out at your own pace. That it’s okay not to have all the answers yet. He nods, quietly, not fully convinced, but listening, and for now, that’s enough.
Boys often grow up with a fragmented and confused idea of masculinity. Entitlement gets mistaken for confidence and performance for connection. Sex education is never just facts or figures. It’s about teaching empathy, boundaries, and responsibility. Boys can grow moustaches if they want, but they shouldn’t feel like they have to prove anything because of them.
Then I try moving to my safe zone, which is books. I try to tell S that books aren’t just for passing the time, but they can actually be a guide, too. “If you want to understand girls or relationships in general, there are stories that help,” I say, rattling off a few he might like, for instance, funny coming-of-age novels, a couple about friendships and first crushes, and one or two where the boy learns the hard way that respect matters more than showing off. I am almost about to say that reading about someone else’s mess is comforting.
I also tell him that books can be a refuge. When you’re sad, bored, or just need a break from the chaos of the world, you can disappear into a world of dragons, daring heroes, or ridiculous adventures.
Later that evening, I peek into the living room, and there he is, sleeping with the book lying open on his chest. He didn’t even make it past the first chapter. I can’t help laughing quietly. Maybe he’s not learning about respect tonight, but at least he gave it a try, and there’s always tomorrow. And yet in that moment, I want to wake him and tell him to go ahead, grow the moustache, make it thick, but don’t let it take over everything. Keep the child in you alive, the one who stops for bubbles, who doesn’t mind looking silly. There’s room for both. We will figure this out.
The writer is a Delhi-based publishing professional
