When he said he wanted to come home over an extended weekend from college, I asked my son if he was feeling homesick. “Nah!” he said dismissively, “I’m treating it like a working holiday.” Holiday I could understand, but working?

Before he’d jazzed off to join college in Pune, I had paid a not inconsiderate sum for his admission in a private university in the NCR. It was a sum we were willing to write off to the greater cause, but not my son. “Speak to them,” he said, “they should be able to penalise you a little and return the rest.”

Against my better judgement, but because it made sound sense, I spoke to a senior director I was acquainted with, who promised to look into the matter. Nothing happened, till he called again of his own accord to say he would definitely do something and that his office would be in touch with me. Instead, the office sent letters saying how delighted they were that my son had joined the university, and laid down a sequence of goals that seemed more formidable than achievable.

I wrote to the head of the department as well as the administrative head to inform them that that my son had decided to take another course in another university, and that it was with regret I was withdrawing him from their programme. “That’s good,” wrote back the section head, “children should follow their heart and do what they want” — or at least words to that affect. Since this did not look like they wanted to compensate me by way of the fees, I resigned myself to the inevitable.

“Use your contacts,” urged my son every time he called from Pune, “I could use some of that money.” He wasn’t in any dire straits, but it was clear he would find ways to spend the sum for improving his PG digs. “It’s all right,” I consoled him, “it’s money spent for a good cause.” “It’s money wasted,” he insisted. I took to hedging around the subject; he became increasingly shrill.

A few days ago he called to say the laptops that were built into the course fee were being distributed in class. Could I at least pick up his laptop as compensation? “No,” I said, “I don’t think they’ll issue us one.” “But we’ve already paid for it,” he persisted. “Even so,” I said, “if it’s in their charter that they don’t return the fee amount, so we shouldn’t grovel ignorantly in front of them.” “But we should at least take what is ours,” he shot back.

Because he took to calling after every lecture, I took to ducking his calls. He’d send a barrage of SMSs that I would ignore. “You don’t know how to negotiate anything,” he said dejectedly, when he’d manage to sneak in a call to me unawares, “do you realise if I had the laptop in Pune, at least I could do some work. Or listen to some music…”

He called yesterday to say he was coming home for a few days if it was all right with me. “Just like that?” I asked. “To fight for my rights,” he said. Apparently, he’s set his eyes on that laptop and by hook or by crook he’ll have it. “I’ve shifted into another flat just so that I can use it uninterruptedly,” he explained.

I nodded. What with having forgone the deposit on the previous flat, as well as the broker’s fee, and then laying down some more deposit and another handsome commission for his new apartment, and the cost of his air tickets, it’s clear buying him a laptop would have been far cheaper than having him get the one that he claims is his by right.