3 year old Roopa is an imaginative child. Often she would be lost in her web of imagination and then sometimes she would suddenly speak out her thoughts, without any preface. To a bystander, not used to her ways, she was an enigma.
Lying in bed and looking out through the window, one moonlit night, she suddenly said, " Look Papa ! Look at the 'C', I mean See-A-Tee Cat " Her father, lying next to her and in the process of trying to lull her into sleep looked but failed to find any feline presence. Where a normal father would have shrugged it off as a senseless patter of a child not yet feeling sleepy, Roopa's father did a little mental sleuthing. He discovered that moon, the only object visible from the window that night, was indeed in the shape of the third letter of the alphabet 'C'. It was the third night of the brighter fortnight that day. When he connected this with the third page of Roopa's K.G. class English Primer, he understood the significance and felt himself humbled since no poet before Roopa had ever connected moon with the cat.
Showing posts with label Children. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Children. Show all posts
Sunday, August 21, 2011
Saturday, August 20, 2011
CRIMINALS
The other day, we had been to the Agri expo 1977 fair. In one of the pavillions, some khadi clad V.I.P.s accompanied by the usual paraphernelia of chamchas and cops in uniform, walked in.
Since the faces were not quite well known locally, the question on the lips of all V.O.P.s like us was, ' Who are these people ? " As if sensing this, a small boy spoke out rather loudly, " Must have done something really bad ! Look at all those policemen following them everywhere !
FOOTNOTE :- Was he making a prophecy of the era of Anna Hazare when that became the common perception of the common man ?
Or was he making a statement of fact that we were then, not aware of ?
I donot know.
Since the faces were not quite well known locally, the question on the lips of all V.O.P.s like us was, ' Who are these people ? " As if sensing this, a small boy spoke out rather loudly, " Must have done something really bad ! Look at all those policemen following them everywhere !
FOOTNOTE :- Was he making a prophecy of the era of Anna Hazare when that became the common perception of the common man ?
Or was he making a statement of fact that we were then, not aware of ?
I donot know.
TRANSFORMATION OF AN ' ENGLISH ' GIRL
Rati was born in England of Indian parents. When she was about five years old, her parents returned along with her to India. Soon, a brother was born. Having been born and brought up in England, she was " English " whereas her brother who was born in India was an Indian.
As if the contrast between England and an Indian city was not enough, her father got a job on the construction site of a public sector unit in one of the most backward areas. Bewilderment of Rati in this place was complete.
Rati had however not forgotten the manners and social graces learnt by her in one of the smaller towns of England. She could be depended upon to stir out of the house in only the most proper dress for the purpose of the outing, all neatly ironed and starched. When meeting someone on the road, instead of sheepishly smiling like other Indian children, she would boldly greet an adult with a " Good Morning or Evening, Mr. or Mrs. or Miss so and so ".
If you were to call on her parents, she would answer the doorbell, greet you properly, a pleasant surprise written all over her face. She would usher you in the sitting room and after making you comfortable, inform her parents of your arrival. Then, like a good child, she would withdraw, leaving the grown - ups to their grown - up talk. Among us construction people in that small settlement, Rati was indeed a wonder, an example quoted by some mothers of what a good child should be.
Rati's little brother was however her despair. He was inclined to be merry, to be talking louder than in whispers and to be wearing ill-matched clothes. If she was not wary, Ravi would sneak out wearing only his slippers. Why ! She had once seen him playing barefooted. And horror of horrors ! Ravi had once openly and unashamedly expressed a desire to swim in a pond that the villagers used for bathing, and washing clothes as well as utensils.
Ravi was indeed a great burden for Rati's frail shoulders. Whenever and wherever possible, she attended to his attire, his manners and so on. But the moment her back was turned, Ravi lapsed into a behaviour that Rati had started thinking of as his " Indianness ". The more she tried to cure him of it, the more he lapsed into it. The strain on her mind was beginning to tell.
It was during this period that I went to Rati's house on some business. Her father was away but was expected back soon. I was therefore having a chat with Rati's mother in the meantime. Rati could be seen reading a book in the adjoining room.
Just then, Ravi barged in her room as was his wont, clothes splattered with mud, hair disheveled and a wild look of joy on his face. He shouted " Look ! Didi ! what I have brought for you ! Rati looked and found a small garland of wild flowers for Rati's hair.
For once in her ten years of existence, she forgot to notice her brother's untidy appearance, his abominable manners and even omitted to scold him. Instead, she broke one of her own rules. She walked into the drawing room, garland in hand and said excitedly, " Mother ! Look ! What Ravi has made for me !
No sooner she said it, she realized that an outsider was present. She was about to apologise and withdraw but the look of total approval on both the adult faces changed her mind. When I pulled her towards me, she came unresistingly and sat on my lap as naturally as the rest of the children in that small settlement did, her pyjamas notwithstanding. Ravi's genuine affection had after all overcome her inhibitions.
She was later to realize that one's behaviour corresponded to one's development on a number of planes, apart from time and environment. Behaviour natural to youself can never be considered as boorish except by boors or half-baked copycat people. Social graces that come from within and are a part of one's personality are what count. Acquired manners like gilded ornaments can last only as long as the gilt takes to wear off. The only way to be happy and to go up is to be true to yourself and the world would eventually be true to you.
By now, Rati is a big girl. Call her Indian, call her English, no matter what !
As if the contrast between England and an Indian city was not enough, her father got a job on the construction site of a public sector unit in one of the most backward areas. Bewilderment of Rati in this place was complete.
Rati had however not forgotten the manners and social graces learnt by her in one of the smaller towns of England. She could be depended upon to stir out of the house in only the most proper dress for the purpose of the outing, all neatly ironed and starched. When meeting someone on the road, instead of sheepishly smiling like other Indian children, she would boldly greet an adult with a " Good Morning or Evening, Mr. or Mrs. or Miss so and so ".
If you were to call on her parents, she would answer the doorbell, greet you properly, a pleasant surprise written all over her face. She would usher you in the sitting room and after making you comfortable, inform her parents of your arrival. Then, like a good child, she would withdraw, leaving the grown - ups to their grown - up talk. Among us construction people in that small settlement, Rati was indeed a wonder, an example quoted by some mothers of what a good child should be.
Rati's little brother was however her despair. He was inclined to be merry, to be talking louder than in whispers and to be wearing ill-matched clothes. If she was not wary, Ravi would sneak out wearing only his slippers. Why ! She had once seen him playing barefooted. And horror of horrors ! Ravi had once openly and unashamedly expressed a desire to swim in a pond that the villagers used for bathing, and washing clothes as well as utensils.
Ravi was indeed a great burden for Rati's frail shoulders. Whenever and wherever possible, she attended to his attire, his manners and so on. But the moment her back was turned, Ravi lapsed into a behaviour that Rati had started thinking of as his " Indianness ". The more she tried to cure him of it, the more he lapsed into it. The strain on her mind was beginning to tell.
It was during this period that I went to Rati's house on some business. Her father was away but was expected back soon. I was therefore having a chat with Rati's mother in the meantime. Rati could be seen reading a book in the adjoining room.
Just then, Ravi barged in her room as was his wont, clothes splattered with mud, hair disheveled and a wild look of joy on his face. He shouted " Look ! Didi ! what I have brought for you ! Rati looked and found a small garland of wild flowers for Rati's hair.
For once in her ten years of existence, she forgot to notice her brother's untidy appearance, his abominable manners and even omitted to scold him. Instead, she broke one of her own rules. She walked into the drawing room, garland in hand and said excitedly, " Mother ! Look ! What Ravi has made for me !
No sooner she said it, she realized that an outsider was present. She was about to apologise and withdraw but the look of total approval on both the adult faces changed her mind. When I pulled her towards me, she came unresistingly and sat on my lap as naturally as the rest of the children in that small settlement did, her pyjamas notwithstanding. Ravi's genuine affection had after all overcome her inhibitions.
She was later to realize that one's behaviour corresponded to one's development on a number of planes, apart from time and environment. Behaviour natural to youself can never be considered as boorish except by boors or half-baked copycat people. Social graces that come from within and are a part of one's personality are what count. Acquired manners like gilded ornaments can last only as long as the gilt takes to wear off. The only way to be happy and to go up is to be true to yourself and the world would eventually be true to you.
By now, Rati is a big girl. Call her Indian, call her English, no matter what !
Friday, August 19, 2011
MAY BE, SHE WILL FIND OUT
I first met Neetu a few years back. She was a neighbour. I remembered her as a sweet talking kid, rather a favourite of my wife. Recently, she came to our office with her dad. Dad was busy, so she was rather at a loose end. So was I. So I invited her upto my cabin. She said, she woiuld come as soon as she finished the coffee that had been ordered for her.
Returning to my cabin, I had almost forgotten about her. When she came in, she had a smile and an expectancy on the face as is proper for a girl out on her first date. We talked about the old days. Did she remenber our neighbours ? She did, except only us. she was however prepared to accept my assertion that we too were her neighbours. Establishment og friendly relations was not at all difficult. Very soon, she was cosy in my lap, chatting gaily and laughing a lot.
" What do you do in office ? " was a question that stumped me. I do not know how they do it but most children including my own, find out soon that all this talk about working hard in the office is actually a lot of humbug. So everytime that they ask this question, I am wary. " I read, sometimes I write and talk to people ' was my guarded answer. " Humphhh... " was her sole response which could have a variety of meanings. In the present case, it meant, " Well, you are a bit of alright. After all, you did not act superior and say I wouldn't understand. "
" Can you cook ? " I asked her.
" Well, I can make tea ".
" What about Rice or Chapatti ? "
" No "
" How did you learn making tea ? "
" Well, there was this Didi living next door to us and her mother was busy, so Didi let me make tea in her house. That was when I was young. I was only seven then. "
"How old are you now ? "
" I am eight ", making it sound like eighteen.
" Can you roast a papad ? "
" I have never done it but it is fairly easy. You buy a pair of tongs similar to the ones you use for picking up ice cubes and use them " , displaying her power of observation.
" Would you roast a papad for me when I come to your place ? ".
She nodded assent and our next date was made.
While this tete - a - tete was in progress, some people came into the next room and a rather loud discussion ensued among them. We had, therefore, to make our dialogue in some other form. Picking up a sheet from the desk calendar that she had carefully dusted earlier with her handkerchief, I made a doodle of a girl in pigtails and captioned it Neetu. I passed it on to her. In reply, she started to make one of me but did not succeed, so she gave it up. Picking up one more sheet, I wrote, Neetu is a naughty girl. She wrote back. No, I am not a naughty girl. Thank you.
After trading a few more insults, she came up with what she thought was an ultimate insult. She wrote, " You are my ontie ". I returned the paper merely correcting her spelling to Auntie. Disappointment and disbelief were writ large on her face. She was still unable to decide whether I was really feminine enough to accept her insult or whether the poisoned dart had made no dent in my armour when her father walked in to fetch her. May be, she will find out if and when she roasts that papad for me.
Returning to my cabin, I had almost forgotten about her. When she came in, she had a smile and an expectancy on the face as is proper for a girl out on her first date. We talked about the old days. Did she remenber our neighbours ? She did, except only us. she was however prepared to accept my assertion that we too were her neighbours. Establishment og friendly relations was not at all difficult. Very soon, she was cosy in my lap, chatting gaily and laughing a lot.
" What do you do in office ? " was a question that stumped me. I do not know how they do it but most children including my own, find out soon that all this talk about working hard in the office is actually a lot of humbug. So everytime that they ask this question, I am wary. " I read, sometimes I write and talk to people ' was my guarded answer. " Humphhh... " was her sole response which could have a variety of meanings. In the present case, it meant, " Well, you are a bit of alright. After all, you did not act superior and say I wouldn't understand. "
" Can you cook ? " I asked her.
" Well, I can make tea ".
" What about Rice or Chapatti ? "
" No "
" How did you learn making tea ? "
" Well, there was this Didi living next door to us and her mother was busy, so Didi let me make tea in her house. That was when I was young. I was only seven then. "
"How old are you now ? "
" I am eight ", making it sound like eighteen.
" Can you roast a papad ? "
" I have never done it but it is fairly easy. You buy a pair of tongs similar to the ones you use for picking up ice cubes and use them " , displaying her power of observation.
" Would you roast a papad for me when I come to your place ? ".
She nodded assent and our next date was made.
While this tete - a - tete was in progress, some people came into the next room and a rather loud discussion ensued among them. We had, therefore, to make our dialogue in some other form. Picking up a sheet from the desk calendar that she had carefully dusted earlier with her handkerchief, I made a doodle of a girl in pigtails and captioned it Neetu. I passed it on to her. In reply, she started to make one of me but did not succeed, so she gave it up. Picking up one more sheet, I wrote, Neetu is a naughty girl. She wrote back. No, I am not a naughty girl. Thank you.
After trading a few more insults, she came up with what she thought was an ultimate insult. She wrote, " You are my ontie ". I returned the paper merely correcting her spelling to Auntie. Disappointment and disbelief were writ large on her face. She was still unable to decide whether I was really feminine enough to accept her insult or whether the poisoned dart had made no dent in my armour when her father walked in to fetch her. May be, she will find out if and when she roasts that papad for me.
Thursday, August 18, 2011
BLACKIE, MY PET
We were enjoying Holi, the colour festival on the terrace of a house in our street. We had just moved in this neighbourhood and but for the shaking off of the inhibitions caused by the Holi festival, we might have taken some time to get acquainted with the neighbours.
After having played Holi among ourselves, we started ambushing the passes-by in the street with balloons filled with coloured water. We noticed the same activity from other terraces in the street as well. When there were no passers-by, we would fling balloons at people in adjacent as well as opposite terraces.
One little girl on the opposite terrace was valiantly trying to throw a balloon at me. Every time, her throw would fall short of me and i would encourage her to do better with the next one.
Next day, I found her standing in the street and crying. Asked what the matter was, she said that her father had not returned from the office and she did not have the key. I took her to our home. That ios how I acquired a new friend or how she came to adopt me and my family. She took to coming to our house every day and became more or less a member of the family. This is what happens wherever I am posted. Some or the other child gets attached to us and becomes an additional temporary member.
Her name is Shyamala and I call her Blackie. Blackie is 8 years old and very worldly wise for her age. Her mother, it seems, was away for quite some time and she lived alone with her father or " Fawther " as she would pronounce the word while referring to him. The father sometimes worked till late hours and Blackie would stay in one or the other house in the street awaiting his return. More often than not, ours was the house chosen by her.
By and by she took to helping my wife in the kitchen. Everyday she would come with a comb in her hand to get her hair dressed by my wife. She would play one or the other game with me. Mostly, it was cards.
Once I scolded her for some minor thing. Thereafter for a few days, she would address me as ' somebody '. If she was asked to enquire from me, if I needed tea, she would say " Does somebody need tea ? " If she wanted to play cards, she would say, " I shall play cards with everyone except " somebody ". Her feminine logic meant that I should force her to play as she associated coercion with masculinity. I would ignore her or try to placate her in a grandfatherly fashion or even cajole her in a little boy's fashion. This did not suit her. She wanted me to be a teen-aged male dominating his female playmate. My wife and mother would sometimes hint at the course to be adopted or rather not adopted with her but I would not budge. Finally we came to a compromise and she resumed speaking to me.
Once she seemed to suspect me of prying into her affairs. she assumed the role of a counter-espionage agent. Her first test on me was to bring a Panchtantra comic containing a story of a monkey who got his tail wedged below a heavy falling tree while prying into others' affairs. She expected me to behave in a mollified manner after this broad hint. I asked her bluntly why she wanted me to read this particular story. Why didn't she come out openly and say what she wanted. Her doubts dissolved, she served me my dinner to make up for her error of judgement.
I once told her that I wrote little pieces on women and children. " Would I write one on her ? " was her querry. " May be " I replied. Well, here it is, Blackie. Read it if you can find it, especially since you have gone into hiding expecting me to chase you like a Hindi film hero !
After having played Holi among ourselves, we started ambushing the passes-by in the street with balloons filled with coloured water. We noticed the same activity from other terraces in the street as well. When there were no passers-by, we would fling balloons at people in adjacent as well as opposite terraces.
One little girl on the opposite terrace was valiantly trying to throw a balloon at me. Every time, her throw would fall short of me and i would encourage her to do better with the next one.
Next day, I found her standing in the street and crying. Asked what the matter was, she said that her father had not returned from the office and she did not have the key. I took her to our home. That ios how I acquired a new friend or how she came to adopt me and my family. She took to coming to our house every day and became more or less a member of the family. This is what happens wherever I am posted. Some or the other child gets attached to us and becomes an additional temporary member.
Her name is Shyamala and I call her Blackie. Blackie is 8 years old and very worldly wise for her age. Her mother, it seems, was away for quite some time and she lived alone with her father or " Fawther " as she would pronounce the word while referring to him. The father sometimes worked till late hours and Blackie would stay in one or the other house in the street awaiting his return. More often than not, ours was the house chosen by her.
By and by she took to helping my wife in the kitchen. Everyday she would come with a comb in her hand to get her hair dressed by my wife. She would play one or the other game with me. Mostly, it was cards.
Once I scolded her for some minor thing. Thereafter for a few days, she would address me as ' somebody '. If she was asked to enquire from me, if I needed tea, she would say " Does somebody need tea ? " If she wanted to play cards, she would say, " I shall play cards with everyone except " somebody ". Her feminine logic meant that I should force her to play as she associated coercion with masculinity. I would ignore her or try to placate her in a grandfatherly fashion or even cajole her in a little boy's fashion. This did not suit her. She wanted me to be a teen-aged male dominating his female playmate. My wife and mother would sometimes hint at the course to be adopted or rather not adopted with her but I would not budge. Finally we came to a compromise and she resumed speaking to me.
Once she seemed to suspect me of prying into her affairs. she assumed the role of a counter-espionage agent. Her first test on me was to bring a Panchtantra comic containing a story of a monkey who got his tail wedged below a heavy falling tree while prying into others' affairs. She expected me to behave in a mollified manner after this broad hint. I asked her bluntly why she wanted me to read this particular story. Why didn't she come out openly and say what she wanted. Her doubts dissolved, she served me my dinner to make up for her error of judgement.
I once told her that I wrote little pieces on women and children. " Would I write one on her ? " was her querry. " May be " I replied. Well, here it is, Blackie. Read it if you can find it, especially since you have gone into hiding expecting me to chase you like a Hindi film hero !
Monday, August 15, 2011
PANTS DON''T MAKE A BOY
Four year old Preety is a delectable dumpling sweet enough to eat. She laughs a lot. She has also a lot of variety in her laughters. Only the discerning can understand what she means by each kind of laughter. She walked into my life one day last year, accompanied by her parents and a baby brother. Since then, she has been enchanting me with her laughters.
On that first meeting, I asked her, her name. " Preety " she said and laughed. This laugh meant, " Look at this silly uncle ! He does not even know that I am Preety. The next day, as I was about to leave for the office, there was a knock on the door. I opened the door and found Preety at the threshold. She looked at me and feeling that I had not paid sufficient attention to her, laughed. Now this laugh could only mean, " Wow ! Aren't you glad that I have come ? " naturally, i had to make amends for my behaviour. I picked her up and announced her arrival to my wife.
Another day, I started telling her that I too had a daughter also called Preety and that she was in Delhi. " Then whose am I ? " she asked bluntly. I had to reply that she too was mine. To this, she laughed meaning " So now you have come round, eh ? "
Once she came in when we were having snacks. I asked her if she would like to join us. She gave no reply but walked upto the dining table, picked up a banana, peeled it, took one bite and laughed. This time it meant, " How amusing ! Soes one behave so formally with one's own ? " And with that laughter, she adopted my wife and myself as her own.
I have yet to see a person with such an expressive laughter. Each and every laughter of hers has a different ring, different meaning to it. Once she returned from a longish vacation. We came across each other in a public gathering. On seeing me, she gave me a " So glad to see you after such a long time " titter. Partly because she had changed somewhat but majorly because I was lost in a reverie, I responded with an automatic smile that was a bit synthetic. She seemed to sense this and laughed again. This laughter sounded different and my reverie was broken. Previously I had only looked at her but now I noticed her. it was then that her second laughter registered on my mind as " Is it so long that you do not even recognize me ? "
Her most memorable laugh was given when we all were going to a party together. She came in, dressed in pants and a bush shirt. " So, you have become a boy ! " I exclaimed. She smugly said " Pants don't make a boy " and laughed.
On that first meeting, I asked her, her name. " Preety " she said and laughed. This laugh meant, " Look at this silly uncle ! He does not even know that I am Preety. The next day, as I was about to leave for the office, there was a knock on the door. I opened the door and found Preety at the threshold. She looked at me and feeling that I had not paid sufficient attention to her, laughed. Now this laugh could only mean, " Wow ! Aren't you glad that I have come ? " naturally, i had to make amends for my behaviour. I picked her up and announced her arrival to my wife.
Another day, I started telling her that I too had a daughter also called Preety and that she was in Delhi. " Then whose am I ? " she asked bluntly. I had to reply that she too was mine. To this, she laughed meaning " So now you have come round, eh ? "
Once she came in when we were having snacks. I asked her if she would like to join us. She gave no reply but walked upto the dining table, picked up a banana, peeled it, took one bite and laughed. This time it meant, " How amusing ! Soes one behave so formally with one's own ? " And with that laughter, she adopted my wife and myself as her own.
I have yet to see a person with such an expressive laughter. Each and every laughter of hers has a different ring, different meaning to it. Once she returned from a longish vacation. We came across each other in a public gathering. On seeing me, she gave me a " So glad to see you after such a long time " titter. Partly because she had changed somewhat but majorly because I was lost in a reverie, I responded with an automatic smile that was a bit synthetic. She seemed to sense this and laughed again. This laughter sounded different and my reverie was broken. Previously I had only looked at her but now I noticed her. it was then that her second laughter registered on my mind as " Is it so long that you do not even recognize me ? "
Her most memorable laugh was given when we all were going to a party together. She came in, dressed in pants and a bush shirt. " So, you have become a boy ! " I exclaimed. She smugly said " Pants don't make a boy " and laughed.
Sunday, July 10, 2011
BRINGING UP GRANDPA
I met two year old Shailav in the suburban locale of a moffusil town. He looks like a well adjusted little Chimpanzee. In any case, who has ever heard of a schizophrenic Chimp ?
Shailav is extremely popular in the neighbourhood. Each one of his neighbours calls him by a different form of endearment. When he passes by, anyone in sight can not resist stopping and exchanging pleasantries with him. An exchange with Shailav seems to lift the gloom off the face of his interlocutor. Age groups do not bother him. He is equally at home with the children, the young as well as the aged. The fair sex is however, one of his weaknesses.
Shailav has an aged neighbour. As it happens in every neighbourhood, this old man is the one who detests children. They " spoil his garden, clutter up his walkway with dirt and make a lot of noise outside his compound."Even when they are playing silently, " They are scheming on some devilish plan to torment him." He therefore jealously guards his property, shooing off any children coming even within a mile of his property.
One day while the old man was attending to his fence, Shailav walked upto hom, looked into his eyes and said " Grandpa " in his usual calm and dispassionate manner. No more words passed. Before the old man could react one way or the other, Shailav had completely forgotten and got busy with some other activity. For want of any other excuse, since Shailav had never entered his property, the old man had been calling him " a pampered brat ." However this incident set him to thinking. At least, he is different. He has never vandalized my garden. Never picked any fruits. What if he is pampered ?
Then on, Shailav got one more person to smile at. What is more, the old man smiled back. The news of the transformation of the old man spread in the neighbourhood. Just then, one day, Shailav was not to be found. Everyone gathered near his house, speculating about his whreabots. All his usual haunts were checked but no luck. After a considerable time, he emerged from the old man's house, mouth properly splattered with Chocolate, hands and pockets bulging with toffees. To the various cries of exclamation, Shailav had very little to respond to. He merely pointed towards the place of his recent place of habitat and said " Grandpa. " In that one word, he was telling the children of the locality that there was always a way of tackling any grown up. To the adults, he was saying " Look, the old man is after all, not that bad " The old man is now ready for grandfathership.
Shailav is extremely popular in the neighbourhood. Each one of his neighbours calls him by a different form of endearment. When he passes by, anyone in sight can not resist stopping and exchanging pleasantries with him. An exchange with Shailav seems to lift the gloom off the face of his interlocutor. Age groups do not bother him. He is equally at home with the children, the young as well as the aged. The fair sex is however, one of his weaknesses.
Shailav has an aged neighbour. As it happens in every neighbourhood, this old man is the one who detests children. They " spoil his garden, clutter up his walkway with dirt and make a lot of noise outside his compound."Even when they are playing silently, " They are scheming on some devilish plan to torment him." He therefore jealously guards his property, shooing off any children coming even within a mile of his property.
One day while the old man was attending to his fence, Shailav walked upto hom, looked into his eyes and said " Grandpa " in his usual calm and dispassionate manner. No more words passed. Before the old man could react one way or the other, Shailav had completely forgotten and got busy with some other activity. For want of any other excuse, since Shailav had never entered his property, the old man had been calling him " a pampered brat ." However this incident set him to thinking. At least, he is different. He has never vandalized my garden. Never picked any fruits. What if he is pampered ?
Then on, Shailav got one more person to smile at. What is more, the old man smiled back. The news of the transformation of the old man spread in the neighbourhood. Just then, one day, Shailav was not to be found. Everyone gathered near his house, speculating about his whreabots. All his usual haunts were checked but no luck. After a considerable time, he emerged from the old man's house, mouth properly splattered with Chocolate, hands and pockets bulging with toffees. To the various cries of exclamation, Shailav had very little to respond to. He merely pointed towards the place of his recent place of habitat and said " Grandpa. " In that one word, he was telling the children of the locality that there was always a way of tackling any grown up. To the adults, he was saying " Look, the old man is after all, not that bad " The old man is now ready for grandfathership.
Sunday, September 19, 2010
SWATI AND SASHA
Swati was about 3 years old, wheat complexioned,chubby and short. She was a neighbour's daughter in the Bhilai Steel Plant's township. What distinguished her from other children in the neighbourhood was the fact that she had a Russian boy friend called Sasha who was also of her age.
Swati and Sasha were inseparables. Swati spoke no language other than Gujarati and Sasha likewise could speak only Russian. This did not pose any barriers between them. They understood each other very well. In course of time, Sasha picked up a few words of Gujarati and Swati, a few of Russian. At Sasha's, both sat on the dining table for their repasts of Borsch soup or Kalabassa from ceramic tableware. At Swati's they squatted on wooden boards ( Patlas ) on the floor and feasted on Dudhpak or Dhokla from stainless steel plates.
Both were banished from time to time from their homes for such harmless acts as Sassabhai's ( his pet name at Swati's place ) presenting crabs to Swati's vegetarian mother as a token of affection or Swatka's ( her pet name at Sasha's place ) eating noisily, making slurping sounds, at Sasha's mother's table to show her appreciation of the food that she was devouring. At such times, my bachelor household provided them with a safe haven. Here, they could frolic, sing, dance or upset things without any demur on anyone's part. I was their Kaka and Dyadya Gujarati and Russian words for uncle.
All good things have to end sooner or later. So they felt when they learnt that I was to marry. They had seen my fiancee's photograph on my bedside table, so when she came as a bride to my house, she was grudgingly accepted. Luckily, my wife, unlike their mothers, had more time on her hands. She could therefore put up with their ways. On their part, they gladly ran errands for her. All went smoothly for some time.
Then, my mother came down to see how her son was coping with married life. For a week, Swati restrained herself. But then it was too much. One day, she cornered the old lady.
" Do you eat here everyday " ? she enquired.
" Yes " said my mother, somewhat amused.
" Do you bathe here also " ? was the next.
" Yes, why " ?
" You even sleep here " ?
" Yes, Of course !
"Well, when are you leaving " ? This with Swati's hands on her tiny but determined waist.
My mother was struck far too dumb at being told by a rank outsider that she was unwelcome in her own son's house. She could not readily muster a suitable rejoinder. Pressing her advantage further, Swati added,
" This is MY Kaka's house "
"Ha, MARA dyadyanun " ( yes, my uncle's ) supported Sasha in his best Russo - Gujarati tongue.
In the evening, on my return home, my mother mentioned about this tete - a - tete to me.
" Did you object to Swati's dancing on the dining table with metallic plates and spoons for musical accompaniment " ? I asked.
" Yes ", said mother.
" Did you refuse entry to Sasha when he was wearing snails for earrings " ? I probed further.
" Yes, Of course ", indignantly replied my mother.
" Well then, what else do you expect " ?
Comprehension descended on my mother like a ton of bricks. And she smiled. Needless to add that thereafter my mother became " Dadi " for Swati and " Babushka " for Sasha just as my wife had earlier become " Kaki " and "Tyotya ".
How old have I grown ? For, to-day I have on my hand, an invitation card for Swati's marriage. No, not to Sasha, you romantic fools !
Swati and Sasha were inseparables. Swati spoke no language other than Gujarati and Sasha likewise could speak only Russian. This did not pose any barriers between them. They understood each other very well. In course of time, Sasha picked up a few words of Gujarati and Swati, a few of Russian. At Sasha's, both sat on the dining table for their repasts of Borsch soup or Kalabassa from ceramic tableware. At Swati's they squatted on wooden boards ( Patlas ) on the floor and feasted on Dudhpak or Dhokla from stainless steel plates.
Both were banished from time to time from their homes for such harmless acts as Sassabhai's ( his pet name at Swati's place ) presenting crabs to Swati's vegetarian mother as a token of affection or Swatka's ( her pet name at Sasha's place ) eating noisily, making slurping sounds, at Sasha's mother's table to show her appreciation of the food that she was devouring. At such times, my bachelor household provided them with a safe haven. Here, they could frolic, sing, dance or upset things without any demur on anyone's part. I was their Kaka and Dyadya Gujarati and Russian words for uncle.
All good things have to end sooner or later. So they felt when they learnt that I was to marry. They had seen my fiancee's photograph on my bedside table, so when she came as a bride to my house, she was grudgingly accepted. Luckily, my wife, unlike their mothers, had more time on her hands. She could therefore put up with their ways. On their part, they gladly ran errands for her. All went smoothly for some time.
Then, my mother came down to see how her son was coping with married life. For a week, Swati restrained herself. But then it was too much. One day, she cornered the old lady.
" Do you eat here everyday " ? she enquired.
" Yes " said my mother, somewhat amused.
" Do you bathe here also " ? was the next.
" Yes, why " ?
" You even sleep here " ?
" Yes, Of course !
"Well, when are you leaving " ? This with Swati's hands on her tiny but determined waist.
My mother was struck far too dumb at being told by a rank outsider that she was unwelcome in her own son's house. She could not readily muster a suitable rejoinder. Pressing her advantage further, Swati added,
" This is MY Kaka's house "
"Ha, MARA dyadyanun " ( yes, my uncle's ) supported Sasha in his best Russo - Gujarati tongue.
In the evening, on my return home, my mother mentioned about this tete - a - tete to me.
" Did you object to Swati's dancing on the dining table with metallic plates and spoons for musical accompaniment " ? I asked.
" Yes ", said mother.
" Did you refuse entry to Sasha when he was wearing snails for earrings " ? I probed further.
" Yes, Of course ", indignantly replied my mother.
" Well then, what else do you expect " ?
Comprehension descended on my mother like a ton of bricks. And she smiled. Needless to add that thereafter my mother became " Dadi " for Swati and " Babushka " for Sasha just as my wife had earlier become " Kaki " and "Tyotya ".
How old have I grown ? For, to-day I have on my hand, an invitation card for Swati's marriage. No, not to Sasha, you romantic fools !
PAPA GOES TO SCHOOL
During our last visit to Vadodara, our home town, we were received at the railway station by my younger brother and his little three year old son Anand. While his father rode his scooter on the way back home, Anand preferred to accompany his somewhat older cousins in the taxi that we took.
When we were passing by the impressive building of the Science faculty of the M.S. University of Baroda with its distinctive metallic dome, my sons looked at it with some amount of interest.
" That is my Papa's school ", calmly explained Anand.
Soon we passed by the even more impressive big - domed building of the Arts faculty. My sons' pupils got even more dilated on seeing this spectacle.
" This is my mummy's school " even more calmly asserted Anand.
This exhibition of his cousin's Papa's and Mummy's schools seemed to chafe little Ashesh, just a year older than Anand. Not long however.
" There goes my Papa's school " triumphantly shouted Ashesh.
Having been busy in my own thoughts about the expected reunion with the family. I had, thus far, not paid much attention to the childrens' patter. Since the faculty of Engineering was nowhere nearby, I shook off my thoughts to look in the direction of Ashesh's pointed finger.
Going ahead of our taxi was an oil tank truck with INDIANOIL, my employer's name blazoned across its rear ! To little boys, noise making moving objects are more impressive than static buildings, however beautiful their facade.
When we were passing by the impressive building of the Science faculty of the M.S. University of Baroda with its distinctive metallic dome, my sons looked at it with some amount of interest.
" That is my Papa's school ", calmly explained Anand.
Soon we passed by the even more impressive big - domed building of the Arts faculty. My sons' pupils got even more dilated on seeing this spectacle.
" This is my mummy's school " even more calmly asserted Anand.
This exhibition of his cousin's Papa's and Mummy's schools seemed to chafe little Ashesh, just a year older than Anand. Not long however.
" There goes my Papa's school " triumphantly shouted Ashesh.
Having been busy in my own thoughts about the expected reunion with the family. I had, thus far, not paid much attention to the childrens' patter. Since the faculty of Engineering was nowhere nearby, I shook off my thoughts to look in the direction of Ashesh's pointed finger.
Going ahead of our taxi was an oil tank truck with INDIANOIL, my employer's name blazoned across its rear ! To little boys, noise making moving objects are more impressive than static buildings, however beautiful their facade.
AN AMATEUR CHILD PSYCHOLOGIST'S ERROR
During the 1965 Indo-Pak war, our three year old son Santosh's vocabulary was enriched by warlike words. Guns, Tanks, Bombs, Fighters were words constantly playing on his lips. Soon after the war, he heard that the Prime Minister Lal Bahadur Shastri had died.
" Who shot him " was the question he shot at his mother. A little shocked, the mother somewhat testily replied that he was not shot by anyone.
"Then, how did he die " ? was the next one. Before his mother gave an even more shocked response to this second baffler, I thought I would butt in. A child psychologist that I considered myself to be, I was anxious that my son should be explained this thing about death in the logic and language of a child.
" Well, you see darling, Shastriji fell very much sick and that is why he died ", was the explanation given by me.
" But I did not die when I fell very much sick " was his argument apparently referring to his measles.
" But then, Shastriji was very old whereas you are very young " was my childlike reinforcement of the earlier explanation, Absence of any further discourse on the subject gave me the satisfaction of having used my child psychology successfully.
Six months later, we went to see our parents who were anxious to see their grandson. Mother was down with influenza so she called him to her bedside. He was immediately interested in the grandma much to the latter's delight.
" So you are grandma " ! he broke the ice.
" Well yes, I am your grandma " proudly countered my mother.
" Aren't you sick " ? my son went on.
" Yes dear, I am very much sick, that is why I could not come to the sta.....
" Oh! that's alright " interupted the little one.
" But tell me, are you old " ?
"Yes, my dear ! I am very old " piteously replied the granny.
" Well, well ! getting a little excited, the little devil spoke out triumphantly, " Then, you are going to die " !
My mother was struck dumb but her glare was eloquent. It showed unmistakably the contempt that she had for this new fangled thing called child psychology that I had been proudly parading about !
Post script:- My mother died eventually at the age of 95 years at Santosh's house in New Delhi of nothing but old age.
" Who shot him " was the question he shot at his mother. A little shocked, the mother somewhat testily replied that he was not shot by anyone.
"Then, how did he die " ? was the next one. Before his mother gave an even more shocked response to this second baffler, I thought I would butt in. A child psychologist that I considered myself to be, I was anxious that my son should be explained this thing about death in the logic and language of a child.
" Well, you see darling, Shastriji fell very much sick and that is why he died ", was the explanation given by me.
" But I did not die when I fell very much sick " was his argument apparently referring to his measles.
" But then, Shastriji was very old whereas you are very young " was my childlike reinforcement of the earlier explanation, Absence of any further discourse on the subject gave me the satisfaction of having used my child psychology successfully.
Six months later, we went to see our parents who were anxious to see their grandson. Mother was down with influenza so she called him to her bedside. He was immediately interested in the grandma much to the latter's delight.
" So you are grandma " ! he broke the ice.
" Well yes, I am your grandma " proudly countered my mother.
" Aren't you sick " ? my son went on.
" Yes dear, I am very much sick, that is why I could not come to the sta.....
" Oh! that's alright " interupted the little one.
" But tell me, are you old " ?
"Yes, my dear ! I am very old " piteously replied the granny.
" Well, well ! getting a little excited, the little devil spoke out triumphantly, " Then, you are going to die " !
My mother was struck dumb but her glare was eloquent. It showed unmistakably the contempt that she had for this new fangled thing called child psychology that I had been proudly parading about !
Post script:- My mother died eventually at the age of 95 years at Santosh's house in New Delhi of nothing but old age.
WHY MY SONS PREFER HARD BOILED EGGS
With no daughter who could help their mother, we had taken to encouraging our sons, aged six and eight, to do some household chores during their holidays. This would prepare them for the coming days of their married life. Who knows whether servants would exist twenty years hence ? In all probabikity, their wives would be working for a living and would dearly appreciate husbands adept in helping around the house.
Having learnt how to make tea, we left them to experiment on making boiled eggs for breakfast as a first step in cooking. After a few almost raw or highly boiled, cracked eggs which spilled their contents into the boiling water, they learnt how to boil eggs properly. I was a bit curious to know how they learnt this.
" It's easy " ! said six year old Ashesh, " When the eggs start fighting, they are no longer raw " !
"Yes, but how do you know whether they are hard - boiled " ? I questioned, a bit amused at his imaginative expression.
" That's easy too " ! interposed eight year old Santosh, eager to show his power of observation. "When my egg breaks the head of Ashesh's egg, his egg is over - boiled but my egg is just hard - boiled. "
" Well, but if you want half - boiled eggs " ? I probed.
" Oh that ! gloomily said tiny Ashesh, " That's when you switch off the gas before you have really enjoyed the egg fighting " !
So now, I know why they never eat half - boiled eggs or for that matter, their eggs are never over - boiled. They neither want to miss the fun of the egg fight nordo they want either one's egg to lose !
Having learnt how to make tea, we left them to experiment on making boiled eggs for breakfast as a first step in cooking. After a few almost raw or highly boiled, cracked eggs which spilled their contents into the boiling water, they learnt how to boil eggs properly. I was a bit curious to know how they learnt this.
" It's easy " ! said six year old Ashesh, " When the eggs start fighting, they are no longer raw " !
"Yes, but how do you know whether they are hard - boiled " ? I questioned, a bit amused at his imaginative expression.
" That's easy too " ! interposed eight year old Santosh, eager to show his power of observation. "When my egg breaks the head of Ashesh's egg, his egg is over - boiled but my egg is just hard - boiled. "
" Well, but if you want half - boiled eggs " ? I probed.
" Oh that ! gloomily said tiny Ashesh, " That's when you switch off the gas before you have really enjoyed the egg fighting " !
So now, I know why they never eat half - boiled eggs or for that matter, their eggs are never over - boiled. They neither want to miss the fun of the egg fight nordo they want either one's egg to lose !
Saturday, September 18, 2010
WHAT IS A THOUGHT?
Being the first grandchild in both her paternal as well as maternal households, little Dipti at two and a half years, was a bit spoiled. Her mother, a strict disciplinarian, found it tough to manage her in the face of all the spoiling done by the rest of the extended family. The child, used to all the indulgence from the rest of us, found this act of disciplining rather repugnant. In a sort of retaliatory tactic, she had learnt when and how to irritate the parent.
Once, she wanted to wash her hands in the dish that she had partaken her lunch from. The mother forbade it. "Why", asked Dipti. "Well, it is simply not done. You should go to the washing place for that", sternly replied the parent.
"Alright, if I can't wash my hands in the plate, can I pee in it "?
This did it. The mother boiled with rage, gave her a lecture on sanitation and finally asked,
" How could you think of such a thing? Don't you get better thoughts"?
" Tell me, Mummy, what is a thought "? This simply stumped the mother. She had no ready answer. In exasperation, she did what parents are apt to do on such occasions. She punished Dipti.
As a bystander, I was myself puzzled by this question. I could find a precise definition of the word " Thought " in the oxford dictionary but how could I explain it to a two and a half year old? The nearest that I have come to is this. " Say, you are sitting, doing nothing and in your head, some 'Yum-Yum' is going on. It is called a thought ". However, by the time, I came to this solution, I also came to realize that a child at that age acts by instinct alone. No 'yum-yum' ever goes on in their head. Action being thoughts tightly wound like a spring, the stage of thinking has already been passed by a child. It can not think just as a brilliant school boy can not act like a backward boy in the class.
It would take some unwinding or dis-education for the child to be able to comprehend even the explanation of the word " Thought " that is given by me. At thirty, now Dipti should have been diseducated enough to understand all that I have written. May be, it would give a clue to some of the actions of her own daughters.
Post script:- At sixty, now, as a grandmother herself, she would perhaps understand some of her own mother's compulsions in acting like she did !
Once, she wanted to wash her hands in the dish that she had partaken her lunch from. The mother forbade it. "Why", asked Dipti. "Well, it is simply not done. You should go to the washing place for that", sternly replied the parent.
"Alright, if I can't wash my hands in the plate, can I pee in it "?
This did it. The mother boiled with rage, gave her a lecture on sanitation and finally asked,
" How could you think of such a thing? Don't you get better thoughts"?
" Tell me, Mummy, what is a thought "? This simply stumped the mother. She had no ready answer. In exasperation, she did what parents are apt to do on such occasions. She punished Dipti.
As a bystander, I was myself puzzled by this question. I could find a precise definition of the word " Thought " in the oxford dictionary but how could I explain it to a two and a half year old? The nearest that I have come to is this. " Say, you are sitting, doing nothing and in your head, some 'Yum-Yum' is going on. It is called a thought ". However, by the time, I came to this solution, I also came to realize that a child at that age acts by instinct alone. No 'yum-yum' ever goes on in their head. Action being thoughts tightly wound like a spring, the stage of thinking has already been passed by a child. It can not think just as a brilliant school boy can not act like a backward boy in the class.
It would take some unwinding or dis-education for the child to be able to comprehend even the explanation of the word " Thought " that is given by me. At thirty, now Dipti should have been diseducated enough to understand all that I have written. May be, it would give a clue to some of the actions of her own daughters.
Post script:- At sixty, now, as a grandmother herself, she would perhaps understand some of her own mother's compulsions in acting like she did !
NIRAV"S CHOICE
Nirav, my nephew was then about three years old. At a family gathering of both his paternal and maternal sides, he was the youngest. Naturally, everybody fussed over him.
We were talking about his impending entry into a kindergarten. He wanted to know why he should go to a school when he was perfectly happy at home. All of us told him in our various ways, the advantages of education. We also told him what he could become after a stint in education. By way of illustration, all his uncles and aunts told him what each one of them had become by pursuing education. We also explained to him what it meant to become a doctor, an engineer,a teacher and so on. After listening to the rest of us, he turned to his favourite - his grandfather, who said that he was a retired man.
Now, we wanted to know what Nirav would like to become. Once again, each one of us vied with each other in praising his or her profession in the hope that he would choose that profession. Standing in the middle, he scrutinized each one of us by turns, while the object of his scrutiny was keen with anticipation. Nirav did not however, did not choose any of the professions listed / recommended much to our cumulative surprize.
Before the next unspoken question on our lips could materialize, he walked upto his grandfather, sat in his lap and gravely said, "After school, I am going to retire". He had chosen the ultimate destination of all the professions !
We were talking about his impending entry into a kindergarten. He wanted to know why he should go to a school when he was perfectly happy at home. All of us told him in our various ways, the advantages of education. We also told him what he could become after a stint in education. By way of illustration, all his uncles and aunts told him what each one of them had become by pursuing education. We also explained to him what it meant to become a doctor, an engineer,a teacher and so on. After listening to the rest of us, he turned to his favourite - his grandfather, who said that he was a retired man.
Now, we wanted to know what Nirav would like to become. Once again, each one of us vied with each other in praising his or her profession in the hope that he would choose that profession. Standing in the middle, he scrutinized each one of us by turns, while the object of his scrutiny was keen with anticipation. Nirav did not however, did not choose any of the professions listed / recommended much to our cumulative surprize.
Before the next unspoken question on our lips could materialize, he walked upto his grandfather, sat in his lap and gravely said, "After school, I am going to retire". He had chosen the ultimate destination of all the professions !
" YEH TO HONA HI THA ! (THIS HAD TO HAPPEN )
Thanks to Amy, I am in the grandparents' generation. Till now, I was made to feel like a grand father on account of the confidence reposed in me and friendship proferred to me on an equal footing by children of friends and neighbours. I am one in reality now on account of the arrival of this American citizen. Amy is my grandniece. I have dandled her mother on my feet and now it is her turn. She was born in the U.S.A. where her parents werte residing. Grandfathership was till now a state of mind. Now it is almost a state of fact.
She is a typical female. Tell her to come to you and she will run miles away. Tell her you are busy and that you should not be disturbed ; she will pester you with kisses. Being a typical female, she is always fond of males. Her daddy is her ideal. My sons being called Mama ( maternal uncle ), though less important, are immensely proud at achieving this distinction at so young an age. How can I blame them when I am myself so vain about being called Dada Mama ( Grand Uncle ). We are all as proud of Amy as if we had won the Nobel Prize.
Amy has become Ami ( Indianization of an American name ) on arrival in India. Ami means nectar and that is what she is to us. The other day, her third birthday was being celebrated. We were invited to her residence. I was the last arrival. After wishing her a happy birthday, I picked her up. Hugging her closely to my prickly beard, I asked for a kiss. "Not here", she objected. "People might be watching". I took her to a corner and kissed her. Little did I know that she, a typical female was testing my masculine ardour. I hoped that I was adequate.
The answer came as soon as I put her down. She burst into verse, mouthing a popular Hindi film song, eyes dancing along with the rest of her body,
" Ek main aur ek tu
dono milay is tarah
aur jo tan-man main
ho raha hai..........
( One you and one me, the two of us met thus. And what is happening to the body,soul........ )
And then with a sudden accelerated pace but coming to prose from verse,
"Yeh to hona hi tha" ( Well, it had to happen ! )
She is a typical female. Tell her to come to you and she will run miles away. Tell her you are busy and that you should not be disturbed ; she will pester you with kisses. Being a typical female, she is always fond of males. Her daddy is her ideal. My sons being called Mama ( maternal uncle ), though less important, are immensely proud at achieving this distinction at so young an age. How can I blame them when I am myself so vain about being called Dada Mama ( Grand Uncle ). We are all as proud of Amy as if we had won the Nobel Prize.
Amy has become Ami ( Indianization of an American name ) on arrival in India. Ami means nectar and that is what she is to us. The other day, her third birthday was being celebrated. We were invited to her residence. I was the last arrival. After wishing her a happy birthday, I picked her up. Hugging her closely to my prickly beard, I asked for a kiss. "Not here", she objected. "People might be watching". I took her to a corner and kissed her. Little did I know that she, a typical female was testing my masculine ardour. I hoped that I was adequate.
The answer came as soon as I put her down. She burst into verse, mouthing a popular Hindi film song, eyes dancing along with the rest of her body,
" Ek main aur ek tu
dono milay is tarah
aur jo tan-man main
ho raha hai..........
( One you and one me, the two of us met thus. And what is happening to the body,soul........ )
And then with a sudden accelerated pace but coming to prose from verse,
"Yeh to hona hi tha" ( Well, it had to happen ! )
Friday, September 17, 2010
PRERAK'S PRANK
As far as naughtiness is concerned, Prerak is a class by himself. This 10 year old nephew of mine (nearly 50 years in A.D. 2010) has a way of measuring, on first acquaintance, the mettle of people, that would be the envy of the most experienced psychologist. When he was admitted to a new school, his father explained the characteristics of the boy to the headmaster so that the latter is not caught unawares.
For want of time, he could not repeat this to Prerak's class teacher. In the evening, my brother-in-law went to pick up Prerak and also to make up for the morning omission. He spoke to the teacher about Prerak's pranks. The experienced teacher told my brother-in-law not to worry as he had handled all kinds of children. "By the way", the teacher said as the B-I-L was taking leave, "Please do give him some pocket money. Prerak had to borrow one rupee from me for his recess time snack"
"Well, I am sorry to inform you that he has already measured you", said the B-I-L. "Prerak", he continued, "already had two rupees with him and his demand from you was just to see how you would react". The teacher dismissed this interpretation as coming from an overfond father. All the same, he made a mental note of dealing strictly with his new ward. For a month he did so and congratulated himself on having the situation under control till.........
One day, a prank was played in the class and the teacher could not apprehend the culprit. Nobody would admit its authorship. He therefore, punished the entire class to remain inside the classroom in an upright position on the bench - a punishment known in the school parlance as "stand-up-on the bench".
The teacher left the class in the recess for the teachers' common room where he was relating his strict handling of the pupils over a cup of tea. Just when he had got on to the subject of how he would have handled the Naxalites if he were a college teacher in Kolkata, at the very moment, one of his colleagues noticed a boy from the former's class loitering in the lobby. He promptly brought to the notice of the C.T.. The latter was hugely annoyed as only a disobeyed primary school teacher can be and rushed out. He caught the culprit by the scruff of his neck.
"What brings you out?" he demanded. "Why, Sir, we took the punishment that you ordered in place of remaining in the class and we were allowed to go", replied the shaken student. "What rot", exclaimed the C.T. "I never gave any alternative punishment and who is this person who allowed you all to go out?"
"Prerak, Sir! after you went out, he went towards the teachers' common room. On return, he informed us that he had pleaded our case to you. Out of the kindness of your heart, you had agreed to let us go provided we took another punishment. We agreed and he made us to form a queue. He stood at the door with a foot-rule in hand. As each of us passed him, palm held out in front, he gave one blow of the foot-rule excepting for Santosh who is not well today", the boy explained at length rather breathlessly.
The C.T., prior to consulting a doctor for a threatened attack of apoplexy, looked for Prerak, only to be informed that he had left the school to escort the sick Santosh to his home. He was already by then well on the way to the latter's home. Needless to add that Prerak had 'stomachache' for the next two days, a period in his reckoning, by which, things would cool down a bit !
For want of time, he could not repeat this to Prerak's class teacher. In the evening, my brother-in-law went to pick up Prerak and also to make up for the morning omission. He spoke to the teacher about Prerak's pranks. The experienced teacher told my brother-in-law not to worry as he had handled all kinds of children. "By the way", the teacher said as the B-I-L was taking leave, "Please do give him some pocket money. Prerak had to borrow one rupee from me for his recess time snack"
"Well, I am sorry to inform you that he has already measured you", said the B-I-L. "Prerak", he continued, "already had two rupees with him and his demand from you was just to see how you would react". The teacher dismissed this interpretation as coming from an overfond father. All the same, he made a mental note of dealing strictly with his new ward. For a month he did so and congratulated himself on having the situation under control till.........
One day, a prank was played in the class and the teacher could not apprehend the culprit. Nobody would admit its authorship. He therefore, punished the entire class to remain inside the classroom in an upright position on the bench - a punishment known in the school parlance as "stand-up-on the bench".
The teacher left the class in the recess for the teachers' common room where he was relating his strict handling of the pupils over a cup of tea. Just when he had got on to the subject of how he would have handled the Naxalites if he were a college teacher in Kolkata, at the very moment, one of his colleagues noticed a boy from the former's class loitering in the lobby. He promptly brought to the notice of the C.T.. The latter was hugely annoyed as only a disobeyed primary school teacher can be and rushed out. He caught the culprit by the scruff of his neck.
"What brings you out?" he demanded. "Why, Sir, we took the punishment that you ordered in place of remaining in the class and we were allowed to go", replied the shaken student. "What rot", exclaimed the C.T. "I never gave any alternative punishment and who is this person who allowed you all to go out?"
"Prerak, Sir! after you went out, he went towards the teachers' common room. On return, he informed us that he had pleaded our case to you. Out of the kindness of your heart, you had agreed to let us go provided we took another punishment. We agreed and he made us to form a queue. He stood at the door with a foot-rule in hand. As each of us passed him, palm held out in front, he gave one blow of the foot-rule excepting for Santosh who is not well today", the boy explained at length rather breathlessly.
The C.T., prior to consulting a doctor for a threatened attack of apoplexy, looked for Prerak, only to be informed that he had left the school to escort the sick Santosh to his home. He was already by then well on the way to the latter's home. Needless to add that Prerak had 'stomachache' for the next two days, a period in his reckoning, by which, things would cool down a bit !
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
CHILD IS THE FATHER OF MAN
The truth behind this adage was brought home to me one day some years ago. Ashesh, our son, was then about 2 years old and as naughty as naughty can be. His mother who was busy in the kitchen, suddenly noticed lack of any noise. A mother of three children, she knew what silence meant. She immediately looked for Ashesh. He was found playing with a knife which he had quietly removed from the kitchen !
She asked him to return it. He did not respond. She asked again, the tone changing from request to order. He ignored the peremptory note in her voice. Next, she offered him a toffee in exchange for the knife. The barter deal also did not seem to interest him. Reason and bribe having failed, she decided to resort to direct action. She grabbed the knife. He tightened his hold on the prized possession.She pulled. Her action found an equal reaction from him. Afraid that he might cut his fingers, she let go of the knife. Now, thought Ashesh, was the first opportunity for him to take an initiative in the matter. With the skill of an escaping convict, he ran.
The mother might have lacked foresight but not alertness. She chased him. Even practised escapees, sometimes get themselves into a corner when pursued by fleet-footed cops. So did Ashesh. He had the initiative and he had lost it. With the aplomb of a politician defeated at the polls, he decided to bide his time. To make himself comfortable, he even sat down in the corner that he had backed himself into. His mother towered over him. It was now for her to take the initiative, but she could not think of the next step.
FATHERS MAKE EASY TARGETS
Now, lack of resourcefulness is apt to result in anger. However, being angry with Ashesh was like getting angry with a block of frozen steel. In such situations, mothers have to find some other targets for venting out their strong feelings. Fathers usually fill the bill. Especially, if they are comfortably ensconced in a sofa with a newspaper in one hand and a cigarette in the other, watching the mothers grappling with recalcitrant children and on top of it, wearing an amused grin. I was in the position so described and I got the full blast of the light brigade.
I got up. I told her that she had used "Saam", "Daam" and "Dand" ( convincing. incentive and punishment methods respectively ) but these had been found to be inadequate. I told her that in such a case, "Bhed" ( trickery ) has to be used as advised by the great sage Kautilya in his welknown treatise "Arthashastra " dealing with statecraft. The look of disdain on her face told me that she was not much impressed with Kautilya. She even expected some action from me, not advice. So there was no alternative but to extinguish the cigarette, throw the newspaper aside with a flourish and get going. I did so.
I first explained to her my strategy which was based on child psychology. I had only to divert the child from his adamant posture of not returning the knife by converting the issue into a kind of game. She was even less impressed by my strategy than by Kautilya. So I had to show her that we Desais came in all sizes.
HOPEFUL SIGN
I swept her aside as I approached Ashesh. He seemed to take my entry on the stage with some amusement, judging by the the smile on his face. This, I said to myself, was a hopeful sign; so I made my first move. I covered my eyes with my hands. He followed suit. I uncovered my eyes. He dittoed. Even my wife now seemed impressed. Only, she averted her eyes when I gazed at her, possibly to avoid giving me the applause rightfully due to me. Not discouraged, I pressed my advantage further. I proposed to Ashesh that I would close my eyes and he could place the knife in my outstretched hand. This way, he could avoid the inconvenience of holding the knife while covering his eyes. Besides, there would be no loss of face on his part, since my eyes would be closed. He nodded agreement to this proposal. My wife did not even now applaud me but I could perceive a distinct thaw in her mien. I covered my eyes with one hand and outstretched the other. Ashesh however had one stipulation. He wanted to be sure that I could not see at all. To reassure him on this score, I pressed my hand tightly on my eyes and honestly closed my eyes.
A couple of seconds passed. No knife still. Instead I heard a peal of laughter from my wife. I decided to investigate this sudden otburst of mirth during a serious proceeding and opened my eyes. In answer to my questioning look, my wife, still convulsed with laughter, merely pointed to the the gate. I turned my gaze as directed and beheld our offspring executing a neat getaway through the gate, knife still in hand. He had, you see, made good of the opportunity !
She asked him to return it. He did not respond. She asked again, the tone changing from request to order. He ignored the peremptory note in her voice. Next, she offered him a toffee in exchange for the knife. The barter deal also did not seem to interest him. Reason and bribe having failed, she decided to resort to direct action. She grabbed the knife. He tightened his hold on the prized possession.She pulled. Her action found an equal reaction from him. Afraid that he might cut his fingers, she let go of the knife. Now, thought Ashesh, was the first opportunity for him to take an initiative in the matter. With the skill of an escaping convict, he ran.
The mother might have lacked foresight but not alertness. She chased him. Even practised escapees, sometimes get themselves into a corner when pursued by fleet-footed cops. So did Ashesh. He had the initiative and he had lost it. With the aplomb of a politician defeated at the polls, he decided to bide his time. To make himself comfortable, he even sat down in the corner that he had backed himself into. His mother towered over him. It was now for her to take the initiative, but she could not think of the next step.
FATHERS MAKE EASY TARGETS
Now, lack of resourcefulness is apt to result in anger. However, being angry with Ashesh was like getting angry with a block of frozen steel. In such situations, mothers have to find some other targets for venting out their strong feelings. Fathers usually fill the bill. Especially, if they are comfortably ensconced in a sofa with a newspaper in one hand and a cigarette in the other, watching the mothers grappling with recalcitrant children and on top of it, wearing an amused grin. I was in the position so described and I got the full blast of the light brigade.
I got up. I told her that she had used "Saam", "Daam" and "Dand" ( convincing. incentive and punishment methods respectively ) but these had been found to be inadequate. I told her that in such a case, "Bhed" ( trickery ) has to be used as advised by the great sage Kautilya in his welknown treatise "Arthashastra " dealing with statecraft. The look of disdain on her face told me that she was not much impressed with Kautilya. She even expected some action from me, not advice. So there was no alternative but to extinguish the cigarette, throw the newspaper aside with a flourish and get going. I did so.
I first explained to her my strategy which was based on child psychology. I had only to divert the child from his adamant posture of not returning the knife by converting the issue into a kind of game. She was even less impressed by my strategy than by Kautilya. So I had to show her that we Desais came in all sizes.
HOPEFUL SIGN
I swept her aside as I approached Ashesh. He seemed to take my entry on the stage with some amusement, judging by the the smile on his face. This, I said to myself, was a hopeful sign; so I made my first move. I covered my eyes with my hands. He followed suit. I uncovered my eyes. He dittoed. Even my wife now seemed impressed. Only, she averted her eyes when I gazed at her, possibly to avoid giving me the applause rightfully due to me. Not discouraged, I pressed my advantage further. I proposed to Ashesh that I would close my eyes and he could place the knife in my outstretched hand. This way, he could avoid the inconvenience of holding the knife while covering his eyes. Besides, there would be no loss of face on his part, since my eyes would be closed. He nodded agreement to this proposal. My wife did not even now applaud me but I could perceive a distinct thaw in her mien. I covered my eyes with one hand and outstretched the other. Ashesh however had one stipulation. He wanted to be sure that I could not see at all. To reassure him on this score, I pressed my hand tightly on my eyes and honestly closed my eyes.
A couple of seconds passed. No knife still. Instead I heard a peal of laughter from my wife. I decided to investigate this sudden otburst of mirth during a serious proceeding and opened my eyes. In answer to my questioning look, my wife, still convulsed with laughter, merely pointed to the the gate. I turned my gaze as directed and beheld our offspring executing a neat getaway through the gate, knife still in hand. He had, you see, made good of the opportunity !
Sunday, September 12, 2010
JULIE - MY DE LUXE NIECE
" Don't I look like a bu-o-i ", chirped a musical voice from a seat in a row ahead of me in the chair car of the Mumbai-New Delhi de luxe train. The voice belonged to a chestnut coloured shaggy mane. I was yet to know that I was going to meet Ninad's counterpart, a girl with a high FQ. Ninad, if you remember, is the little man with a high MQ.
" What are you? " I asked the voice. " I am a ga-al, of course " said the mane as it turned towards me to reveal a buck-toothed, freckle-faced little girl apparently of the white race with a charming gap in her front teeth. " I am wearing a boy's dress, but I am a girl " she confided in me. Love was instantaneous, simultaneous and mutual. Julie is a 7 year old girl. Pardon me, darling, for revealing your age but uncles will be uncles. We got to talking, me leaning on the back of her seat and she with her body half twisted towards me. During the course of the conversation, she got down from her chair and straddled herself on my lap as if it was the most natural thing to do.
" I have an uncle whose name is Rameshbhai " she told me. " Well, then, I too am your uncle, for that happens to be my name too " I responded effusively. I was rewarded by a hug whose feminity has not yet eluded me. " How come, you have an Indian for an uncle? " " Because my daddy is an Indian. I am an American, though " she said and sneezed. " Na Zdorovye " spoke simultaneously Julie and her mother. Surprises after surprises! " That's Russian, literally meaning - to health -" I exclaimed. " O..o..h my grampa is a Russian.. you know !" she giggled. She too was surprised that I understood the Russian language.
To pass the time of the day, I taught her a card game. That attracted two other Delhi girls of her age to join us. Fond as I am of all children, I was unable to avoid making a blatant show of my partiality for Julie. The other girls only helped to accentuate by comparison Julie's FQ. I must explain what I mean by FQ for those of you who have not yet made the acquaintance of my friend, Ninad, the chap as I said earlier with a high MQ.
FQ is short for feminity quotient. It is the ratio of the feminine attributes in a particular specimen divided by all the feminine attributes possible in an all-female female. I have yet to devise tests to determine this quotient. So, for the time being, you have to go by my instinct, which in any case, is more trustworthy.
As we tired of the card games, she recited Gujarati and English nursery rhymes to me, the former taught to her by her Gujarati father. Next, we played a game called " Simon says ", a game that I knew by the name "Gandhiji says" in my childhood, then the guessing game, the Antakshari and countless other childrens' games. I discovered that the childrens' games are universal and timeless. Whether the children are Indians, Americans, Russians or Japanese, whether of my generation or of Julie's, they play almost the same games. I had entered the railway train in one of those inexpressibly depressed moods. Books, journals, ogling the lovely ladies sitting around me, my mother's comforting presence by my side, my imagination, my thoughts, the chanting of the Gita - nothing had been able to divert my mind earlier as Julie's particular feminity did now. I even found myself playing "Hide andSeek " with the children in a coach full of adults. That was the extent of my loss of inhibitions. Thanks to Julie, I had temporarily regressed to my child ego state.
A dream like sixteen hours passed and New Delhi neared. I was breakfasting in the dining car when Julie sought me out. Holding out half a portion of chickoo, my share of the fruit, she said "Good Bye, Uncle " My heart wrenched. I too did likewise keeping a brave front as she left.
I do not know if I would ever meet Julie again. So long, darling. I know you would not grow up to be a women's libber. It is men who would have to try to liberate themselves from you and similar other specimens of your sex. Jailors do not start liberation movements, you know !
" What are you? " I asked the voice. " I am a ga-al, of course " said the mane as it turned towards me to reveal a buck-toothed, freckle-faced little girl apparently of the white race with a charming gap in her front teeth. " I am wearing a boy's dress, but I am a girl " she confided in me. Love was instantaneous, simultaneous and mutual. Julie is a 7 year old girl. Pardon me, darling, for revealing your age but uncles will be uncles. We got to talking, me leaning on the back of her seat and she with her body half twisted towards me. During the course of the conversation, she got down from her chair and straddled herself on my lap as if it was the most natural thing to do.
" I have an uncle whose name is Rameshbhai " she told me. " Well, then, I too am your uncle, for that happens to be my name too " I responded effusively. I was rewarded by a hug whose feminity has not yet eluded me. " How come, you have an Indian for an uncle? " " Because my daddy is an Indian. I am an American, though " she said and sneezed. " Na Zdorovye " spoke simultaneously Julie and her mother. Surprises after surprises! " That's Russian, literally meaning - to health -" I exclaimed. " O..o..h my grampa is a Russian.. you know !" she giggled. She too was surprised that I understood the Russian language.
To pass the time of the day, I taught her a card game. That attracted two other Delhi girls of her age to join us. Fond as I am of all children, I was unable to avoid making a blatant show of my partiality for Julie. The other girls only helped to accentuate by comparison Julie's FQ. I must explain what I mean by FQ for those of you who have not yet made the acquaintance of my friend, Ninad, the chap as I said earlier with a high MQ.
FQ is short for feminity quotient. It is the ratio of the feminine attributes in a particular specimen divided by all the feminine attributes possible in an all-female female. I have yet to devise tests to determine this quotient. So, for the time being, you have to go by my instinct, which in any case, is more trustworthy.
As we tired of the card games, she recited Gujarati and English nursery rhymes to me, the former taught to her by her Gujarati father. Next, we played a game called " Simon says ", a game that I knew by the name "Gandhiji says" in my childhood, then the guessing game, the Antakshari and countless other childrens' games. I discovered that the childrens' games are universal and timeless. Whether the children are Indians, Americans, Russians or Japanese, whether of my generation or of Julie's, they play almost the same games. I had entered the railway train in one of those inexpressibly depressed moods. Books, journals, ogling the lovely ladies sitting around me, my mother's comforting presence by my side, my imagination, my thoughts, the chanting of the Gita - nothing had been able to divert my mind earlier as Julie's particular feminity did now. I even found myself playing "Hide andSeek " with the children in a coach full of adults. That was the extent of my loss of inhibitions. Thanks to Julie, I had temporarily regressed to my child ego state.
A dream like sixteen hours passed and New Delhi neared. I was breakfasting in the dining car when Julie sought me out. Holding out half a portion of chickoo, my share of the fruit, she said "Good Bye, Uncle " My heart wrenched. I too did likewise keeping a brave front as she left.
I do not know if I would ever meet Julie again. So long, darling. I know you would not grow up to be a women's libber. It is men who would have to try to liberate themselves from you and similar other specimens of your sex. Jailors do not start liberation movements, you know !
Saturday, September 11, 2010
NINAD MY FRIEND
Ninad is a 3 year old kid. A very cool customer, he is. Cucumbers take lessons from him as far as coolness is concerned. He is the son of a junior colleague and a neighbour as well. Nothing ruffles him.Punishment has no meaning and enticements flow off like water on a duck's back. Fooling him for any length of time is equally futile. He is his own master. I am fond of children and generally, children reciprocate my feelings for them. Ninad however was unapproachable and posed a challenge to me.
What attracted me to him was his rather high MQ. I should explain what I mean by MQ. You have perhaps heard of the concept of NARA and NARAYANA as enunciated in the epic Mahabharata. Arjuna was portrayed as NARA and Krishna as NARAYANA. Arjuna was supposed to be masculinity personified, being cast in a heroic mould. Wherever he went, he not only vanquished men in battle; he also conquered women's hearts and won himself a wife or two! He had all the masculine traits that a person could possibly have. Krishna, on the other hand, was the friend, philosopher and guide. A ladies' man, Krishna was more of a NARAYANA than of a NARA. People instictively looked up to him for advice and were never disappointed.
Now, every person has some male and some female traits in him / her. Very few persons are all male - males or all female - females. MQ is the masculinity quotient and FQ is the feminity quotient. This quotient is defined as the ratio of the number of masculine or feminine traits in a person divided by the total of all the masculine or feminine traits that are possible in an all male - man or an all female - woman.
Coming back to our story, Ninad with his high MQ, has his father as his ideal. He has no place in his life for the feminine gender. His mother is for him a weak boy who cooks for the family and whom he could order around. If to him, it appears that his mother did not behave as a boy should, she was a " ganda ladka " ( a naughty boy ). Any attempt on the mother's part to discipline him would bring him post haste to our office in whatever state of dress or undress, he would happen to be. He would complain to his father about his "Aai" ( mother ) being a "ganda ladka", describing in detail, her crime of the moment. Having done his duty, he would march into my cabin and perch himself on my lap. His favourite activity was to fiddle with the paperweights and the telephone instrument. At 36, I was promoted by him to the grandpa's status perhaps because his father took his orders from me. Thus I earned his respect.
Like all grandchildren, he took me to be his equal. He shared his thoughts and his toys with me - a thing that he rarely did with other children. We were living in a township still under construction that I was in charge of. Trucks, jeeps and earthmoving machinery were constantly at work. Ninad had a great fascination for noise making moving objects. Trucks, jeeps, bull dozers, helicopters were his weakness. Drivers of all these machines were special people on whose good side, he always endeavoured to be, bending as much as was possible for him in the process. He always managed to get a ride on the bulldozer, the kindly operator allowing him to fiddle with the control levers.
Once, as the bulldozer with the familiar operator, hove into view, his eyes attained a wistful look. An idea struck him. Said he to me : " Hey there! How about a ride on the bulldozer? If you like, I can ask Naqui Ahmed, the operator to give you one! " The words were simple but the idea was eloquent. I have never felt more flattered in my life. Ninad had accepted me as his best friend and as a proof, he had offered to share even his pettest machine with me!
What attracted me to him was his rather high MQ. I should explain what I mean by MQ. You have perhaps heard of the concept of NARA and NARAYANA as enunciated in the epic Mahabharata. Arjuna was portrayed as NARA and Krishna as NARAYANA. Arjuna was supposed to be masculinity personified, being cast in a heroic mould. Wherever he went, he not only vanquished men in battle; he also conquered women's hearts and won himself a wife or two! He had all the masculine traits that a person could possibly have. Krishna, on the other hand, was the friend, philosopher and guide. A ladies' man, Krishna was more of a NARAYANA than of a NARA. People instictively looked up to him for advice and were never disappointed.
Now, every person has some male and some female traits in him / her. Very few persons are all male - males or all female - females. MQ is the masculinity quotient and FQ is the feminity quotient. This quotient is defined as the ratio of the number of masculine or feminine traits in a person divided by the total of all the masculine or feminine traits that are possible in an all male - man or an all female - woman.
Coming back to our story, Ninad with his high MQ, has his father as his ideal. He has no place in his life for the feminine gender. His mother is for him a weak boy who cooks for the family and whom he could order around. If to him, it appears that his mother did not behave as a boy should, she was a " ganda ladka " ( a naughty boy ). Any attempt on the mother's part to discipline him would bring him post haste to our office in whatever state of dress or undress, he would happen to be. He would complain to his father about his "Aai" ( mother ) being a "ganda ladka", describing in detail, her crime of the moment. Having done his duty, he would march into my cabin and perch himself on my lap. His favourite activity was to fiddle with the paperweights and the telephone instrument. At 36, I was promoted by him to the grandpa's status perhaps because his father took his orders from me. Thus I earned his respect.
Like all grandchildren, he took me to be his equal. He shared his thoughts and his toys with me - a thing that he rarely did with other children. We were living in a township still under construction that I was in charge of. Trucks, jeeps and earthmoving machinery were constantly at work. Ninad had a great fascination for noise making moving objects. Trucks, jeeps, bull dozers, helicopters were his weakness. Drivers of all these machines were special people on whose good side, he always endeavoured to be, bending as much as was possible for him in the process. He always managed to get a ride on the bulldozer, the kindly operator allowing him to fiddle with the control levers.
Once, as the bulldozer with the familiar operator, hove into view, his eyes attained a wistful look. An idea struck him. Said he to me : " Hey there! How about a ride on the bulldozer? If you like, I can ask Naqui Ahmed, the operator to give you one! " The words were simple but the idea was eloquent. I have never felt more flattered in my life. Ninad had accepted me as his best friend and as a proof, he had offered to share even his pettest machine with me!
BRINGING UP GRANDPA
I met 2 year old Shailav in the suburban locale of a moffusil town. He looks like a well adjusted little chimpanzee. In any case, who has heard of a schizophrenic chimp? Shailav is extremely popular in the neighbourhood. Each one of his neighbours calls him by a different form of endearment as if to establish an exclusive relationship with him. When he passes by, anyone in sight, can not resist stopping and exchanging pleasantries with him. An exchange with Shailav seems to lift the gloom off the face of his interlocutor. Age groups do not bother him. He is equally at ease with children, the young and the aged. The fair sex is however one of his weaknesses.
Shailav has an aged neighbour. As it happens in every neighbourhood, this old man is the one who detests children. According to him, they spoil his garden, clutter up his walkway with dirt and make a lot of noise outside his compound. Even when they are playing silently, they appear to him to be planning some devilish scheme to torment him. He therefore jealously guards his property, shooing off any child coming within even a mile of his domain.
One day, while the old man was attending to his fence, Shailav walked up to him, looked into his eyes and said " Grandpa " in his usual calm and dispassionate manner. Before the old man could react one way or the other, Shailav had completely forgotten him and had got busy with some other activity. For want of any other excuse, the old man had been calling him a pampered brat. However, this incident set him to thinking. At least, he is different. He has never vandalised my garden. Never picked any fruits. What if he is pampered?
Then on, Shailav got one more person to smile at. What is more, the old man smiled back. The news of this transformation of the old man spread like a wild fire in the neighbourhood. Just then, one day, Shailav was not to be found. His anxious mother, scoured the entire neighbourhood, checking out each of his numerous haunts. He was nowhere. Everybody gathered outside his house speculating on where he could possibly be. After what seemed like eternity, Shailav emerged from an unexpected place - the old man's house, mouth properly splattered with chocolate, hands and pockets bulging with toffees. To the various cries of exclamation and querries, he had very little to respond to. He merely pointed to the place of his recent habitat and said " Grandpa ". In that one word, he was telling the children of the locality that there was always a way of dealing with any grown up. To the adults, he was saying, look, the old miser is, after all, not that bad. The old man is now ready for grandfathership!
Shailav has an aged neighbour. As it happens in every neighbourhood, this old man is the one who detests children. According to him, they spoil his garden, clutter up his walkway with dirt and make a lot of noise outside his compound. Even when they are playing silently, they appear to him to be planning some devilish scheme to torment him. He therefore jealously guards his property, shooing off any child coming within even a mile of his domain.
One day, while the old man was attending to his fence, Shailav walked up to him, looked into his eyes and said " Grandpa " in his usual calm and dispassionate manner. Before the old man could react one way or the other, Shailav had completely forgotten him and had got busy with some other activity. For want of any other excuse, the old man had been calling him a pampered brat. However, this incident set him to thinking. At least, he is different. He has never vandalised my garden. Never picked any fruits. What if he is pampered?
Then on, Shailav got one more person to smile at. What is more, the old man smiled back. The news of this transformation of the old man spread like a wild fire in the neighbourhood. Just then, one day, Shailav was not to be found. His anxious mother, scoured the entire neighbourhood, checking out each of his numerous haunts. He was nowhere. Everybody gathered outside his house speculating on where he could possibly be. After what seemed like eternity, Shailav emerged from an unexpected place - the old man's house, mouth properly splattered with chocolate, hands and pockets bulging with toffees. To the various cries of exclamation and querries, he had very little to respond to. He merely pointed to the place of his recent habitat and said " Grandpa ". In that one word, he was telling the children of the locality that there was always a way of dealing with any grown up. To the adults, he was saying, look, the old miser is, after all, not that bad. The old man is now ready for grandfathership!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)