There was a time when honesty was highly prized.
“Do not tell lies,” we were enjoined by our parents and our teachers, even when we merely stretched the truth a little bit to make ourselves out to be innocent of childhood’s mostly minor crimes — or when we sought to elevate ourselves as the heroic one who had rescued the blackboard duster from the villainous grasp of the children in the next classroom or portrayed ourselves as the generous one who had saved the last sandwich on the plate for Mother.
We negotiated our way through our teenage years with a more or less unblemished record, avoiding all situations where we would be forced to lie by producing vague or no answers or pretending we had not heard the questions directed at us by our parents. We told ourselves it was not technically telling a lie if we ducked out of the front door with our friends and mumbled: “We’re getting together with our friends for a little while ...” and neglected to mention exactly how long that “little while” was and where the elaborately planned party that would continue until way past our curfew hours was taking place.
Meanwhile, we watched and listened as some of our friends who came from conservative homes and were not allowed out to parties or anywhere that they would come into contact with persons of the opposite sex, made up elaborate lies for their absence from home. They were inventive and creative — and somehow had a different and absolutely believable story for each outing.
Inventive friends
When we were finally well ensconced in adulthood, we looked back and laughed at all those half-truths we had spouted and we acknowledged that they had been so easy for us. We didn’t have to remember much beyond the truth whereas our more inventive friends had to have all the details of their web of fiction on their fingertips, ready to face all kinds of interrogation when they got back.
In due course, with our children, we kept to that one age-old instruction we had received: Do not tell lies.
Luckily for us, we did not have to stress this too much. Our child was secure enough and probably so confident that he could spin us around his little finger just by his existence that he did not seem to have the urge to spin any lies about anything.
In arguments and hand-to-hand fights, in study hour and subsequent examinations, whether toys were broken or made off with, tests were aced or flunked, we could rely on him to tell us the truth about his role and the role of the others in his group. He would perhaps first tell us how someone else had done terribly in a test — and then admit to his poor marks. Or he would give a blow-by-blow account of the melee on the playground — and then sheepishly acknowledge that he had started it by challenging a formidable opponent.
We didn’t care who was to blame. We were just happy that he had been truthful. That was what mattered, wasn’t it? Surely, being smart enough to know that the truth made all the difference and would get one ahead in life, right?
No, not necessarily, it seems.
Because now we hear that studies show that children who lie early in life have better cognitive ability and turn out to be smarter than their truthful (and perhaps simpler) friends.
In time, there could be further studies that show that young liars turn out to be more successful or more influential or whatever.
However, I think I would still like to have the confidence that I will get the truth from my now adult son, however hard to accept, however unpalatable.
Cheryl Rao is a journalist based in India.
