Shame Has Better Aim Than Guilt

Deepak has been parked outside his own house for twenty minutes with the engine off. It is ten to eight in the evening. The lights are on upstairs. His son’s room is the one on the left.

Last night, over a page of fractions, he lost his temper. It had been a long day and the boy, who is nine, had made the same mistake four times, and on the fifth Deepak brought his hand down on the table hard enough to make the pencil jump, and said, “Are you stupid? Is that it? Are you actually stupid?” The boy did not cry. He went very still and looked at the page. Deepak has been seeing that stillness all day: in the lift, in a client meeting, at lunch.

He knows the look, because he used to wear it. His own father had a good deal to say over homework.