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All you need to do is go here and participate. What are you waiting for?
Tuesday, February 14, 2012
Happy Valentine's Day
The brat emerges from school a puzzled frown splitting his adorable brow into half. "Mamma, wot is Valentine's Day?"
Ermm. Mamma should have known this was coming and read up on what the Good Dr Spock said parents should do when confronted with such leading questions. But, not having had the foresight to do so, she had to wing it, and so she did.
She debated for a split second on whether she should give him the back story about St Valentine, poor tortured soul, reputed for bringing together Christian lovers and getting them to tie the knot, albeit in cloak and dagger fashion and ending up headless for his efforts, given that the emperor du jour, whose name slips me at the moment, did not take too kindly to (then not yet a Saint ) Valentine's suggestion that he convert to Christianity too. Ah well. That was dropped. Then I wondered whether I save him the trouble of agonising over diamonds for his girlfriend when he hits his teens as I see some teens around me doing, and emotionally blackmailing their parents for the funds to prove their love for their current crush and explain the commercial Valentine's Day marketing behemoth to him. I dropped that too. It would jade his innocent soul too early and bring in the rancour of cynicism.
Ergo, I kept it simple. "Valentine's Day," I began bravely, "Is a day when you are supposed to show your love for the people in your life."
"Bud," he persisted. "Howtu show yer love?"
This was smooth sailing henceforth, I thought. "By doing nice things for the other person."
"Layik gedding fer dem giffs?"
Errm. Yes. I conceded reluctantly. "Den if you luv me you'll get fer me three packitts of Slam Attax."
I must say the child let me get off cheap. Next year I will explain how Valentine's Day is reserved for romantic love and how motherly love does not quite come within its ambit, if the scale of said gift increases.
Ermm. Mamma should have known this was coming and read up on what the Good Dr Spock said parents should do when confronted with such leading questions. But, not having had the foresight to do so, she had to wing it, and so she did.
She debated for a split second on whether she should give him the back story about St Valentine, poor tortured soul, reputed for bringing together Christian lovers and getting them to tie the knot, albeit in cloak and dagger fashion and ending up headless for his efforts, given that the emperor du jour, whose name slips me at the moment, did not take too kindly to (then not yet a Saint ) Valentine's suggestion that he convert to Christianity too. Ah well. That was dropped. Then I wondered whether I save him the trouble of agonising over diamonds for his girlfriend when he hits his teens as I see some teens around me doing, and emotionally blackmailing their parents for the funds to prove their love for their current crush and explain the commercial Valentine's Day marketing behemoth to him. I dropped that too. It would jade his innocent soul too early and bring in the rancour of cynicism.
Ergo, I kept it simple. "Valentine's Day," I began bravely, "Is a day when you are supposed to show your love for the people in your life."
"Bud," he persisted. "Howtu show yer love?"
This was smooth sailing henceforth, I thought. "By doing nice things for the other person."
"Layik gedding fer dem giffs?"
Errm. Yes. I conceded reluctantly. "Den if you luv me you'll get fer me three packitts of Slam Attax."
I must say the child let me get off cheap. Next year I will explain how Valentine's Day is reserved for romantic love and how motherly love does not quite come within its ambit, if the scale of said gift increases.
Wednesday, February 08, 2012
The brat goes on his first overnight trip
...first, let me pick up my jaw from the floor, mop up my tears with the bathtowel and roundly ignore the realisation that I am dispensable.
Okay. Let's continue. This is not a good realisation for a mother to have, but I must accept in. Take it on the chin, as it were.
I was off to Delhi for a spate of book related events and the brat was at home. With his daadi and father to watch over him. I was delighted to hear I was not missed or pined for. Of course, I pined for him. Ah well, not pined, but it was rough on me not to have someone to yell at occasionally and boss over. I kid of course.
I returned from Delhi the evening of the morning he left for his school trip to Lonavala. I had not seen him for four days and the maternal heart, as would be obvious, was overflowing.
Went to pick him up from school when the buses landed. Spotted him in the throng of children, waved manically, threw some flying kisses at him, grabbed him and bussed him all over when he was handed over to me, much to his disgust and complete dismemberment of cool boy image. He mopped his face of my lipstick with his hand and hissed in my ear, "Whachyure doing! Eveyone is luking at us."
In deference to his wishes for a more restrained reunion, I stopped the unseemly PDA and took him to the car. The How Was The Trip questions dealt with, I progressed gently to the leading question. "So," I asked. "Did you miss mamma."
"No," came the matter of fact reply. "I was very busy to miss you."
The said maternal heart shattered into a million pieces and I drooped languidly in the car. We reached home and the brat called his other pintsizes over, played with them, and generally didn't seem much elated at my return. While a part of me was all, in twitter terminology, #DilToot, the stronger selfish part was thrilled that this meant I could now travel out of town at will without worrying about the tyke mourning my absence. I got down to chalking out solo and all girls trips I could now take off on, and general khayali pulao hedonism in my head was much indulged in. And then it was time to sleep. And a little voice piped up, "Mamma, can I sleep in yer bed tuday."
He's not such a big boy as he makes himself out to be, after all.
Okay. Let's continue. This is not a good realisation for a mother to have, but I must accept in. Take it on the chin, as it were.
I was off to Delhi for a spate of book related events and the brat was at home. With his daadi and father to watch over him. I was delighted to hear I was not missed or pined for. Of course, I pined for him. Ah well, not pined, but it was rough on me not to have someone to yell at occasionally and boss over. I kid of course.
I returned from Delhi the evening of the morning he left for his school trip to Lonavala. I had not seen him for four days and the maternal heart, as would be obvious, was overflowing.
Went to pick him up from school when the buses landed. Spotted him in the throng of children, waved manically, threw some flying kisses at him, grabbed him and bussed him all over when he was handed over to me, much to his disgust and complete dismemberment of cool boy image. He mopped his face of my lipstick with his hand and hissed in my ear, "Whachyure doing! Eveyone is luking at us."
In deference to his wishes for a more restrained reunion, I stopped the unseemly PDA and took him to the car. The How Was The Trip questions dealt with, I progressed gently to the leading question. "So," I asked. "Did you miss mamma."
"No," came the matter of fact reply. "I was very busy to miss you."
The said maternal heart shattered into a million pieces and I drooped languidly in the car. We reached home and the brat called his other pintsizes over, played with them, and generally didn't seem much elated at my return. While a part of me was all, in twitter terminology, #DilToot, the stronger selfish part was thrilled that this meant I could now travel out of town at will without worrying about the tyke mourning my absence. I got down to chalking out solo and all girls trips I could now take off on, and general khayali pulao hedonism in my head was much indulged in. And then it was time to sleep. And a little voice piped up, "Mamma, can I sleep in yer bed tuday."
He's not such a big boy as he makes himself out to be, after all.
Sunday, January 29, 2012
And mamma has to travel
Now that Mamma's book is out, Mamma has some travelling to do in order to promote her book. This travel takes her to Delhi this week, from the 2nd to the 5th. And the brat goes to Lonavla for his first overnight trip ever on the 5th and returns on the 6th. He has been very excited about this to the extent of packing every toy he possesses in a huge suitcase with a token Tshirt and one underwear to satisfy the requirements of being modestly clothed on said trip.
He was also, quick to notice that Mamma's suitcase, with adequate warm clothing, given that despite her obvious layers of subdermal insulation mamma does shiver in the slightest breeze, was being packed with clothes.
He perched himself on top and watched the process. Many clothes were being packed. Mamma is not, in keeping with the rest of her, a light packer.
"Mamma," he finally piped up, in a woebegone voice. "How many days I will not see you?"
Mamma's heart suddenly broke realising that this will be the first time ever in eight years that she would be spending a night away from the brat. Suddenly, her big boy doesn't seem that big after all.
Tuesday, January 24, 2012
So. Mamma gave a speech.
The brat was woken up Sunday morning, spit polished and poured into his clothes.
"Where we are going?"
We're going to St Xavier's college, in town, because mamma has to give a talk.
"In a college? With big chillun? Yu're a teacher?"
No, mamma assured him that she hadn't taken up the noble profession and this was a one off. Mamma, Pappa and brat took themselves down to the car where the questions continued.
"Whachyure going to talk about?"
About Twitter and blogs and facebook and India Helps.
He nodded wisely.
"Nobody knows about twidder and facebuk and IndiaHelps."
Erm. They do, but they want me to tell them more about it.
"Bud wai dey aksed you to come an talk. Yure a gud talker?"
Much speechlessness followed.
"Where we are going?"
We're going to St Xavier's college, in town, because mamma has to give a talk.
"In a college? With big chillun? Yu're a teacher?"
No, mamma assured him that she hadn't taken up the noble profession and this was a one off. Mamma, Pappa and brat took themselves down to the car where the questions continued.
"Whachyure going to talk about?"
About Twitter and blogs and facebook and India Helps.
He nodded wisely.
"Nobody knows about twidder and facebuk and IndiaHelps."
Erm. They do, but they want me to tell them more about it.
"Bud wai dey aksed you to come an talk. Yure a gud talker?"
Much speechlessness followed.
Saturday, January 21, 2012
Thursday, January 19, 2012
Of birth months and nomenclature
The brat has been chuckling through Roald Dahl's Charlie and the Chocolate Factory and Charlie and The Great Glass Elevator for some days now.
Before proceeding further let me get down on my hands and knees and thank the heavens above for transforming this complete non reader into a mildly interested reader, which on a Richter scale of one to 10, came periliously close to nine for me.
So, the other day, he sang the Augustus Gloop song for me, as sung by said knee high Oompa Loompas and wondered aloud.
Wot means Augustus?
I tried to get into Roman emperor and August and pre-eminent and all of which I needn't have bothered with.
So, he wuz born in August. For the sake of ending the discussion, I nodded as I pressed at the lift floor buttons.
And I wuz born in d monthof October.
So dat makes me Octobus Manral. I laughed. He continued earnestly. Mamma, will it be Octobus Manral or Octopus Manral.
Move over Bruce Manral and Krish Khan Kapoor, Octopus Manral is the new nom de guerre.
Before proceeding further let me get down on my hands and knees and thank the heavens above for transforming this complete non reader into a mildly interested reader, which on a Richter scale of one to 10, came periliously close to nine for me.
So, the other day, he sang the Augustus Gloop song for me, as sung by said knee high Oompa Loompas and wondered aloud.
Wot means Augustus?
I tried to get into Roman emperor and August and pre-eminent and all of which I needn't have bothered with.
So, he wuz born in August. For the sake of ending the discussion, I nodded as I pressed at the lift floor buttons.
And I wuz born in d monthof October.
So dat makes me Octobus Manral. I laughed. He continued earnestly. Mamma, will it be Octobus Manral or Octopus Manral.
Move over Bruce Manral and Krish Khan Kapoor, Octopus Manral is the new nom de guerre.
Monday, January 16, 2012
Mere Paas Maa Hai
There is a lot of bravado that goes on in the playground with everything from cycles, to playstation games to cricket and slam attax collectible cards to whatever it is that chest puffing can be inspired by.
Ergo the other evening when we were down in the park, me doing my regular perambulations of the premises with one ear cocked out to listen in on any murder and mayhem happening in the vicinity of the tykes, I overheard a hot headed discussion taking place between the brat and a fren who is more a frenemy.
"I haff PS2 and PS3 and PSP," said frenemy yelled at brat. "You have only PS2."
"I have Gameboy. I have hundred Playstation games. You have?"
"I have 100 cards. And Sachin Tendulkar gold card. You have?"
The brat drew himself up to Shashi Kapoor levels of Deewar dignity. I feared he would say, can you repeat the question. But no.
"My mudder wrote a book. Yer mudder wrote?"
Haay Mera Bachcha. To borrow a hashtag from the wondrous Aneela.
Ergo the other evening when we were down in the park, me doing my regular perambulations of the premises with one ear cocked out to listen in on any murder and mayhem happening in the vicinity of the tykes, I overheard a hot headed discussion taking place between the brat and a fren who is more a frenemy.
"I haff PS2 and PS3 and PSP," said frenemy yelled at brat. "You have only PS2."
"I have Gameboy. I have hundred Playstation games. You have?"
"I have 100 cards. And Sachin Tendulkar gold card. You have?"
The brat drew himself up to Shashi Kapoor levels of Deewar dignity. I feared he would say, can you repeat the question. But no.
"My mudder wrote a book. Yer mudder wrote?"
Haay Mera Bachcha. To borrow a hashtag from the wondrous Aneela.
Thursday, January 12, 2012
The Reluctant Detective is here
Available on flipkart, indiaplaza, infibeam, crossword and pre orders for signed copies on dialabook.com.
Check www.thereluctantdetectivebook.blogspot.com for details.
And go forth and buy. Please. I humbly request. March into the nearest bookstores and thump your. fist into convenient surface and demand a copy. Now. This minute. Ah well. It is an ungodly hour now. The night watchmen might get startled. Go this weekend. In droves. Buy multiple copies. Gift it to folks you think need some laughter in their lives. They will bless you. And more importantly, I, debutante author, of the trembling knees, will bless you.
Sent from BlackBerry® on Airtel
Check www.thereluctantdetectivebook.blogspot.com for details.
And go forth and buy. Please. I humbly request. March into the nearest bookstores and thump your. fist into convenient surface and demand a copy. Now. This minute. Ah well. It is an ungodly hour now. The night watchmen might get startled. Go this weekend. In droves. Buy multiple copies. Gift it to folks you think need some laughter in their lives. They will bless you. And more importantly, I, debutante author, of the trembling knees, will bless you.
Sent from BlackBerry® on Airtel
Wednesday, January 04, 2012
Does Child Protection go too far in some countries....
I have been following this curious case for a long while now. The case of two children, both Indian nationals, being taken from their parents by the Norwegian Child Protection Services and put into foster care until they are 18, and in separate homes. While the reasons behind the children being taken away into custodial care are not clear, and one can only sympathise with the parents, it did lead me to do some reading up on the Child Protection Services and the definition of children's rights according to Norwegian law and did find it rather fascinating.
Children have the right to express their opinion from the age of seven in Norway. Parents are not permitted to spank their children, even on the rare occasion, This country was the first to appoint an ombudsman for children 25 years ago.
If a child is in an atmosphere of domestic violence or abuse, the Child Protection Agency has the right to move in and take the child out of the home and put the child into foster care.
While the intentions behind these policies are surely commendable one can only wonder how easy it must be to lean over into the extreme. Apparently even the UN has noted with concern the number of children in Norway who have been taken away by the authorities and placed into foster care. In fact, online groups like these are trying to bolster public opinion against the kind of pressure placed by the Child Protection
What are your opinions on this?
There are these horror stories one reads and shudders. A 13 year old boy managed to send out some emails asking for help, to be rescued from his foster home. ""They give little food to me, and I am hungry. Nobody wants to talk to me or take care of me in the foster home, and I feel completely lonely here. Please help me get back home to my mother, or please help me find a lawyer so that I could sue the child protection services."
Another story talks about how a Polish girl just didn't return home from school one day because she had been going to school sad, and the authorities thought that was reason enough to put her into foster care. "Polish newspapers wrote that Norwegian child protection services take as many as 300,000 children away from their parents, presumably immigrants, every year."
And here is more.http://towardchange.wordpress.com/2011/12/28/barnevernet-child-protection-services-in-norway-destroy-families-says-professor-skaanland/
As parents, what do you think of this? All I can hope for is that the Bhattacharyas get their children back soon.
Children have the right to express their opinion from the age of seven in Norway. Parents are not permitted to spank their children, even on the rare occasion, This country was the first to appoint an ombudsman for children 25 years ago.
If a child is in an atmosphere of domestic violence or abuse, the Child Protection Agency has the right to move in and take the child out of the home and put the child into foster care.
While the intentions behind these policies are surely commendable one can only wonder how easy it must be to lean over into the extreme. Apparently even the UN has noted with concern the number of children in Norway who have been taken away by the authorities and placed into foster care. In fact, online groups like these are trying to bolster public opinion against the kind of pressure placed by the Child Protection
What are your opinions on this?
There are these horror stories one reads and shudders. A 13 year old boy managed to send out some emails asking for help, to be rescued from his foster home. ""They give little food to me, and I am hungry. Nobody wants to talk to me or take care of me in the foster home, and I feel completely lonely here. Please help me get back home to my mother, or please help me find a lawyer so that I could sue the child protection services."
Another story talks about how a Polish girl just didn't return home from school one day because she had been going to school sad, and the authorities thought that was reason enough to put her into foster care. "Polish newspapers wrote that Norwegian child protection services take as many as 300,000 children away from their parents, presumably immigrants, every year."
And here is more.http://towardchange.wordpress.com/2011/12/28/barnevernet-child-protection-services-in-norway-destroy-families-says-professor-skaanland/
As parents, what do you think of this? All I can hope for is that the Bhattacharyas get their children back soon.
Monday, January 02, 2012
And a Happy New Year to you
The brat went to his first day at school in 2012 today. The previous week and a half had been a riot of Christmas partying and lunches at nanna's house and his cousin's down for the New Year, more relatives down for the New Year from mamma's side, a New Year's party, much joy and merriment and gluttony and no studying and gifts being showered on him by all and sundry and naturally the prospect that all this must end and the drib drabbery of the school home tuition homework routine would start again was quite a mood dampener last evening.
Especially when reminded the school bag needed to be packed. He draped himself listlessly on various items of furniture and didn't do much packing as mandated.
Mamma took the bag, checked the books, diary, pencil box for pencils sharpened to a point, sharpened the ones that weren't, packed the bag and the book. He emerged to attach the Barcelona keychain received from doting great aunt onto the bag zip and disappeared back into the other room where he was having Spiderman kill some million people off.
After a while he waddled back into his room where I was getting his clothes in order for the next day. "Tomorrow I go back to the third standard?"
Yes, son, I informed him much to his dismay.
"Wai?" he said piteously, "My budday is over and New Year is over. Everything is one year more. I should go back to the fourth standard."
No, I assured him. He had to go back to class three and there was no escaping it.
He emerged from school this afternoon, sullenfaced and grumpy. "What happened, son?" I asked.
"Wai you dint tell me we are 12 years today. I wrote leven years. I had to rub out everything and write all the dates of my worksheet again."
Especially when reminded the school bag needed to be packed. He draped himself listlessly on various items of furniture and didn't do much packing as mandated.
Mamma took the bag, checked the books, diary, pencil box for pencils sharpened to a point, sharpened the ones that weren't, packed the bag and the book. He emerged to attach the Barcelona keychain received from doting great aunt onto the bag zip and disappeared back into the other room where he was having Spiderman kill some million people off.
After a while he waddled back into his room where I was getting his clothes in order for the next day. "Tomorrow I go back to the third standard?"
Yes, son, I informed him much to his dismay.
"Wai?" he said piteously, "My budday is over and New Year is over. Everything is one year more. I should go back to the fourth standard."
No, I assured him. He had to go back to class three and there was no escaping it.
He emerged from school this afternoon, sullenfaced and grumpy. "What happened, son?" I asked.
"Wai you dint tell me we are 12 years today. I wrote leven years. I had to rub out everything and write all the dates of my worksheet again."
Tuesday, December 27, 2011
Main Hoon Don2
The brat, as most of you who follow this blog on a regular basis would know, is a movie buff. A Bollywood movie buff, to be precise, with a condenscending tolerance and part time fling on the side with Hollywood superhero movies, specifically, Batman, Spiderman, Superman, Ironman and the Green Lantern. Within Bollywood, he is a fanboy to the two Khans, Shahrukh Khan and Salman Khan. And neither takes precedence over the other.
Ergo, when Don 2 was glutting the television screens with its promos, the brat stared gape mouthed at Shahrukh Khan taking on his enemies with moves slick enough for him to put Neo out of business in The Matrix Trilogy. Speaking of which, sigh, we were warned there would be a Don3 at the end of this movie. Be still my beating heart.
So it came to pass that Don 2 was released over the weekend. "What are peepil on twitter saying aboud Don 2?" The brat asked, knowing that mamma seeks her informed opinion on movies to watch from the tweets of those who have watched said movies, rather than the puerile reviews that plague our print media. "Not too good, son," I told him straight out. "Is okay, I still wantu see it."
So see it happened yesterday. In 3 D nonetheless. Pet Peeve No 1025 coming up. What is this about every second Bollywood movie being released in 3 D whether they merit it or not. Not only do those damn 3 D glasses cut the bridge of the nose, I end up taking them off and watching the movie blurred because the image is so unclear most times. Anyway, having got that out of the way, we settled down in our seats with our sammwiches and Pepsi and the movie unfurled. Shahrukh Khan going down a tropical back water kind of place, to much whistling and cheering from the audience which mainly comprised new pimple sprouters. He then proceeding to bash up one million people, blow up a shanty by the riverside and escape. Then in a scene straight out of 7 (remember Brad Pitt, Morgan Freeman, Gwyneth Paltrow, Kevin Spacey?) he surrendered himself to Interpol officers Om Puri and Priyanka Chopra whose lips, god save me, have now a zipcode of their own. So Don goes of to jail, not before rattling off some smarmy dialogue. (Psst Bollywood, go out and find some good dialogue writers, for the love of God, this corny overload drags the action down to zzzzz level). Speaking of which, this was the point when I drifted off to sleep, god forgive me. I awoke to see Hrithik Roshan waltzing Priyanka Chopra around and immediately perked up, thanking my stars I'd woken up at an opportune moment, but then Hrithik Roshan peels off his mask while seated in a car and instantly has a height, bodystructure and voice change and becomes Shahrukh Khan. Gah. I went right back to sleep. I woke up again during a car chase, dozed off again and woke up when a building was being blown up and people were being taken hostage and couldn't help but think of Heath Ledger and the bank heist in The Dark Knight, and went right back into Noddy land.
The movie over, the brat woke me up. "You laikt it?"
I confessed honestly that I'd dozed off through most of it. "Did you like it?" In true testosterone fuelled boy manner, he exulted, "Yus, dere wuz faiding and car chasing and shooting. And now dere will be a Don 3. An I'll see dat also."
I hoped by then he would be old enough to be allowed into a show on his own or with his friends. "An wen I growed up I wantu be Don. An I will rob banks."
Errm. "But robbing banks is fer bad peepul. Den how Don is d hero?"
Is it too early to begin explaining the concept of the anti hero to the brat, you think? Especially to nip any emulation of said antiheroism as being threatened?The brat resolved the crisis for me. "I'm nod becoming Don. I habtu become Green Lantern. Someone else can become Don."
Ergo, when Don 2 was glutting the television screens with its promos, the brat stared gape mouthed at Shahrukh Khan taking on his enemies with moves slick enough for him to put Neo out of business in The Matrix Trilogy. Speaking of which, sigh, we were warned there would be a Don3 at the end of this movie. Be still my beating heart.
So it came to pass that Don 2 was released over the weekend. "What are peepil on twitter saying aboud Don 2?" The brat asked, knowing that mamma seeks her informed opinion on movies to watch from the tweets of those who have watched said movies, rather than the puerile reviews that plague our print media. "Not too good, son," I told him straight out. "Is okay, I still wantu see it."
So see it happened yesterday. In 3 D nonetheless. Pet Peeve No 1025 coming up. What is this about every second Bollywood movie being released in 3 D whether they merit it or not. Not only do those damn 3 D glasses cut the bridge of the nose, I end up taking them off and watching the movie blurred because the image is so unclear most times. Anyway, having got that out of the way, we settled down in our seats with our sammwiches and Pepsi and the movie unfurled. Shahrukh Khan going down a tropical back water kind of place, to much whistling and cheering from the audience which mainly comprised new pimple sprouters. He then proceeding to bash up one million people, blow up a shanty by the riverside and escape. Then in a scene straight out of 7 (remember Brad Pitt, Morgan Freeman, Gwyneth Paltrow, Kevin Spacey?) he surrendered himself to Interpol officers Om Puri and Priyanka Chopra whose lips, god save me, have now a zipcode of their own. So Don goes of to jail, not before rattling off some smarmy dialogue. (Psst Bollywood, go out and find some good dialogue writers, for the love of God, this corny overload drags the action down to zzzzz level). Speaking of which, this was the point when I drifted off to sleep, god forgive me. I awoke to see Hrithik Roshan waltzing Priyanka Chopra around and immediately perked up, thanking my stars I'd woken up at an opportune moment, but then Hrithik Roshan peels off his mask while seated in a car and instantly has a height, bodystructure and voice change and becomes Shahrukh Khan. Gah. I went right back to sleep. I woke up again during a car chase, dozed off again and woke up when a building was being blown up and people were being taken hostage and couldn't help but think of Heath Ledger and the bank heist in The Dark Knight, and went right back into Noddy land.
The movie over, the brat woke me up. "You laikt it?"
I confessed honestly that I'd dozed off through most of it. "Did you like it?" In true testosterone fuelled boy manner, he exulted, "Yus, dere wuz faiding and car chasing and shooting. And now dere will be a Don 3. An I'll see dat also."
I hoped by then he would be old enough to be allowed into a show on his own or with his friends. "An wen I growed up I wantu be Don. An I will rob banks."
Errm. "But robbing banks is fer bad peepul. Den how Don is d hero?"
Is it too early to begin explaining the concept of the anti hero to the brat, you think? Especially to nip any emulation of said antiheroism as being threatened?The brat resolved the crisis for me. "I'm nod becoming Don. I habtu become Green Lantern. Someone else can become Don."
Thursday, December 22, 2011
The brat attends his first Catholic wedding reception
For the eight years of his life, the brat has never been to a Catholic wedding. Fewer cousins getting married, and he being very small when the initial weddings happened, and ergo kept back at home rather than me chasing him around the venue was the reason he wasn't around at the few weddings which happened post his being born and then, when this, the wedding of a cousin cropped up mamma thought it would be good for him to experience how wedding receptions happen in other religions, him being exposed only to the standard stand in line, hand over gift and then go eat of most weddings we go to.
"Do you want to come to my cousin's wedding?" mamma asked him.
"You gotta cuzin?"
"Yes, I have many cousins," mamma replied. "How many?" Mamma did a quick head count and named the number 16.
"Yer lying. You cannot have 15 cousins. I have four cousins."
"But I do. Come to the wedding and you'll meet my cousins."
And mamma added as temptation factor, "There will be lots of chicken mutton fish."
It was the clincher.He agreed to come.
We landed at the venue with nana, where he was most fascinated by the three tier cake and the figurines of the bride and the groom on top. And the beautiful icing flowers. And then the entire shindig of the confetti throwing on the bridal couple, the bridal march and the jiving, waltzing, foxtrotting, insisting on doing some, butchering mamma's corns in the process, and finally coming into his element when the dance numbers began spinning and mamma was kindly excused from the dance floor and he danced his heart out.
He returned to the table, sweat pouring down his face, drinking up the carbonated beverage placed in front of him, looking around hungrily.
"Mamma. Catlick weddings have no starters?"
Luckily, service of said starters began quickly enough and he ate. And ate, and ate. And loaded the tissue paper in front of him with some more. Mamma was meeting up with relatives she hadn't met in years, some since childhood, and he was quite surprised to note the number of aunts, uncles and yes, cousins who were popping up.
And finally, dinner was served, and more gluttony happened given the menu was nothing short of a feast for carnivore brat.
At last fed and sated, his eyes drooping heavily, given it was way past his bed time, we made our way back home. Mamma asked him, "Did you enjoy the wedding?" Yes, he replied. "Wen I ged married, I'm going to have a Catlick wedding. With all the chikkin, mutton, fis. And a DJ an a dancing. And I wantu wear a flower in my coat. And make my hair in spikes wid gel."
Of course, mamma told him. "An in my wedding we'll have strawberry icecream. Nod kulfi falooda."
Ermm. So that's all settled now. All that is needed is the bride, I guess.
"Do you want to come to my cousin's wedding?" mamma asked him.
"You gotta cuzin?"
"Yes, I have many cousins," mamma replied. "How many?" Mamma did a quick head count and named the number 16.
"Yer lying. You cannot have 15 cousins. I have four cousins."
"But I do. Come to the wedding and you'll meet my cousins."
And mamma added as temptation factor, "There will be lots of chicken mutton fish."
It was the clincher.He agreed to come.
We landed at the venue with nana, where he was most fascinated by the three tier cake and the figurines of the bride and the groom on top. And the beautiful icing flowers. And then the entire shindig of the confetti throwing on the bridal couple, the bridal march and the jiving, waltzing, foxtrotting, insisting on doing some, butchering mamma's corns in the process, and finally coming into his element when the dance numbers began spinning and mamma was kindly excused from the dance floor and he danced his heart out.
He returned to the table, sweat pouring down his face, drinking up the carbonated beverage placed in front of him, looking around hungrily.
"Mamma. Catlick weddings have no starters?"
Luckily, service of said starters began quickly enough and he ate. And ate, and ate. And loaded the tissue paper in front of him with some more. Mamma was meeting up with relatives she hadn't met in years, some since childhood, and he was quite surprised to note the number of aunts, uncles and yes, cousins who were popping up.
And finally, dinner was served, and more gluttony happened given the menu was nothing short of a feast for carnivore brat.
At last fed and sated, his eyes drooping heavily, given it was way past his bed time, we made our way back home. Mamma asked him, "Did you enjoy the wedding?" Yes, he replied. "Wen I ged married, I'm going to have a Catlick wedding. With all the chikkin, mutton, fis. And a DJ an a dancing. And I wantu wear a flower in my coat. And make my hair in spikes wid gel."
Of course, mamma told him. "An in my wedding we'll have strawberry icecream. Nod kulfi falooda."
Ermm. So that's all settled now. All that is needed is the bride, I guess.
Tuesday, December 20, 2011
Of Robots and robotics
So it was the annual day yesterday. The brat, it would seem, was a robot. The costume was all silver and black and the first one that came in had his stomach out when he raised his arms and the trousers to around calf length so he looked like a flood affected robot. It was sent back and the next size was sent back which then had the neck so wide, he could do an offshoulder number with it and the trousers refusing to stay put on his waist, which, by any standards is not fall off standards. Given that we had a couple of days to said annual day, Mamma let it rest and assured him we would manage with safety pins and a black tshirt inside the offshoulder number.
Asked to show his dance steps, the brat would shrug reluctantly. "I canna do it widaoud d musick."
Errm. So the day of the annual show dawned. And the brat went off to sleep at around 4 pm. We had to reach the grounds by six pm. Much shaking and awaking later he jumped up, splashed his face with water, and dressed himself up. The instructions read, full make up and spiked hair with silver glitter. Mamma had spent a some precious hours scouting stores for gel with silver glitter and failed to procure any and finally settled for regular garden variety gel mixed with a packet of garden variety chamki procured from the neighbouring stationery store. And the black shoes with silver laces were managed by converting regular black school shoes with silver ribbon rolled tight. I mean seriously. A black shoe is a black shoe, how are the silver laces going to make an impact on a stage above eye level. And the hair, given brat's hair is poker straight and soft, it refused to stand up and stay up in respectable spikes but just about kept flopping down wearily onto his forehead. A determined holding up for five minutes had some strands decide to stay put in the direction contrary to gravity. Much rolling on the floor tantrumming happened because the hair refused to spike up. Then came the moment for the make up and the tantrumming increased. "I is nod pudding make up," he spat out. "I is nod a gurl. Eveyone vil laffatme." Mamma managed to get some powder compact onto his face and some rouge onto his cheeks but he firmly drew the line at me approaching him within ten yards with an eyeliner or lipstick in my hand. "Robods don pud make up. Did Sahrukkan pud lipstick and black eyes when he was G.One." Errm. Then he wanted dark glasses. Of the Rajnikant Robot variety. Dark glasses which would come off and come back on at will. And some more rolling on the floor tantrumming happened before he was convinced that those are special sunglasses meant only for big people robots and not small children robots.
Rushed to the venue, informed the classteacher that make up didn't happen because the mard ka bachcha forbid it. She said she will do the needful.
We sat through the concert. Now in open air events in December, you spend half your time swatting the mosquitoes away. That keeps you awake, god bless the little children who performed bravely on a terrible script. Finally it was time for the brat's dance. And they entered. There was the brat, front row, centre, with him as the lead dancer, if that were possible in a group dance. And he danced so brilliantly, so brilliantly, I was open mouthed and the hubby had to put the jaw back up gently. It was a dance which was heavily break dance and robotic movements and he was smooth when required and jerky when required and, maternal love and pride apart, he was quite the cynosure of all eyes and clearly head and shoulders above the rest. That's where I stop gushing.
On the way back to the enclosure they were seated in he passed us. "I danct well? Properly? How I danct?"
Very well, I assured him, fantastic, mindblowing and some more adjectives thrown in as well to bolster the ego.
"Den can you ged for me four Slam Attax?"
Small rant, forgive me. Time to collect the children post show. Parents pushing and shoving, no line, no waiting patiently for their turn to sign on the sheet to collect their kids, the fathers with no qualms whatsoever about pushing the moms out of the way. I signed on the sheet to collect the brat, who couldn't get out because of the throng of parents blocking the exit and when he managed to squirm out, I couldn't get to him because of them monster loutish parents, and finally a teacher had to bring him out from the other end and call out to me, and hand him over the barricade. And I say it again, when parents are such louts, what hope do we have for the kids to grow up well behaved.
Asked to show his dance steps, the brat would shrug reluctantly. "I canna do it widaoud d musick."
Errm. So the day of the annual show dawned. And the brat went off to sleep at around 4 pm. We had to reach the grounds by six pm. Much shaking and awaking later he jumped up, splashed his face with water, and dressed himself up. The instructions read, full make up and spiked hair with silver glitter. Mamma had spent a some precious hours scouting stores for gel with silver glitter and failed to procure any and finally settled for regular garden variety gel mixed with a packet of garden variety chamki procured from the neighbouring stationery store. And the black shoes with silver laces were managed by converting regular black school shoes with silver ribbon rolled tight. I mean seriously. A black shoe is a black shoe, how are the silver laces going to make an impact on a stage above eye level. And the hair, given brat's hair is poker straight and soft, it refused to stand up and stay up in respectable spikes but just about kept flopping down wearily onto his forehead. A determined holding up for five minutes had some strands decide to stay put in the direction contrary to gravity. Much rolling on the floor tantrumming happened because the hair refused to spike up. Then came the moment for the make up and the tantrumming increased. "I is nod pudding make up," he spat out. "I is nod a gurl. Eveyone vil laffatme." Mamma managed to get some powder compact onto his face and some rouge onto his cheeks but he firmly drew the line at me approaching him within ten yards with an eyeliner or lipstick in my hand. "Robods don pud make up. Did Sahrukkan pud lipstick and black eyes when he was G.One." Errm. Then he wanted dark glasses. Of the Rajnikant Robot variety. Dark glasses which would come off and come back on at will. And some more rolling on the floor tantrumming happened before he was convinced that those are special sunglasses meant only for big people robots and not small children robots.
Rushed to the venue, informed the classteacher that make up didn't happen because the mard ka bachcha forbid it. She said she will do the needful.
We sat through the concert. Now in open air events in December, you spend half your time swatting the mosquitoes away. That keeps you awake, god bless the little children who performed bravely on a terrible script. Finally it was time for the brat's dance. And they entered. There was the brat, front row, centre, with him as the lead dancer, if that were possible in a group dance. And he danced so brilliantly, so brilliantly, I was open mouthed and the hubby had to put the jaw back up gently. It was a dance which was heavily break dance and robotic movements and he was smooth when required and jerky when required and, maternal love and pride apart, he was quite the cynosure of all eyes and clearly head and shoulders above the rest. That's where I stop gushing.
On the way back to the enclosure they were seated in he passed us. "I danct well? Properly? How I danct?"
Very well, I assured him, fantastic, mindblowing and some more adjectives thrown in as well to bolster the ego.
"Den can you ged for me four Slam Attax?"
Small rant, forgive me. Time to collect the children post show. Parents pushing and shoving, no line, no waiting patiently for their turn to sign on the sheet to collect their kids, the fathers with no qualms whatsoever about pushing the moms out of the way. I signed on the sheet to collect the brat, who couldn't get out because of the throng of parents blocking the exit and when he managed to squirm out, I couldn't get to him because of them monster loutish parents, and finally a teacher had to bring him out from the other end and call out to me, and hand him over the barricade. And I say it again, when parents are such louts, what hope do we have for the kids to grow up well behaved.
Monday, December 12, 2011
Why common courtesy is becoming increasingly uncommon
Last evening the spouse and I reached home after a long day at the office. The brat was home with his daadi. We waited at the elevator bank in the lobby for the lifts to come down, this being a building with twenty storeys, it does include a fair bit of waiting. As the lift reached the ground floor and opened, a man, his wife and his little son, who could have been no more than six came from outside the lobby, the man bearing some grocery bags pushed past me and entered the lift, his wife followed him, dragging the child with her. The spouse and me let them pass, and then entered. The man had stood near the lift buttons, pressed his floor and would not move to allow me to press my floor button, nor ask which floor he should press on our behalf. I had to actually lean across him and press my floor button which was higher than theirs.
They stood in the lift, spread out, taking up all available space. When their floor arrived, a smidgeon of delight happened when the little son pushed his mother aside and strode out first. Followed by the man, and then the woman. The house they were entering as far as we could see had a lavishly done door and lobby area.
How can I be surprised when these are the sort of children who come down to play with my son? Children who come from absolutely boorish families, where the menfolk think nothing of pushing out a lady standing patiently for an elevator, like it is a train which is being missed. Where the very concept of personal space and politeness does not exist.
These are the kids who push, fight and yell down in the playground and these are the children the brat is suddenly picking up vile behaviour from, behavior so vile that he has been grounded more often these days than he has actually been allowed down to play.
These are wealthy people. Or at least people from the upper middle class segment of society. I would assume a fair amount of education has gone into making them able to earn a living. I assume they also don't come from a mentality of deprivation that results in this push and shove mindset. I put it down to an absolute disdain towards others, a me first syndrome that seems to populate our neo riche. And I am worried what the next generation raised by these parents would be like. I am even more worried thinking that maybe, the brat will pick all these cues from his peers and not what I try to set forth for him. Have written about this on the other blog, this death of public courtesy. Yesterday was such a glaring example, so close to home that it hit me bad. Have you noticed this too? In your society, building complex? The absolute appalling behavior of the neo-rich? The complete dearth of regard, the rise of the 'ugly Indian'.
They stood in the lift, spread out, taking up all available space. When their floor arrived, a smidgeon of delight happened when the little son pushed his mother aside and strode out first. Followed by the man, and then the woman. The house they were entering as far as we could see had a lavishly done door and lobby area.
How can I be surprised when these are the sort of children who come down to play with my son? Children who come from absolutely boorish families, where the menfolk think nothing of pushing out a lady standing patiently for an elevator, like it is a train which is being missed. Where the very concept of personal space and politeness does not exist.
These are the kids who push, fight and yell down in the playground and these are the children the brat is suddenly picking up vile behaviour from, behavior so vile that he has been grounded more often these days than he has actually been allowed down to play.
These are wealthy people. Or at least people from the upper middle class segment of society. I would assume a fair amount of education has gone into making them able to earn a living. I assume they also don't come from a mentality of deprivation that results in this push and shove mindset. I put it down to an absolute disdain towards others, a me first syndrome that seems to populate our neo riche. And I am worried what the next generation raised by these parents would be like. I am even more worried thinking that maybe, the brat will pick all these cues from his peers and not what I try to set forth for him. Have written about this on the other blog, this death of public courtesy. Yesterday was such a glaring example, so close to home that it hit me bad. Have you noticed this too? In your society, building complex? The absolute appalling behavior of the neo-rich? The complete dearth of regard, the rise of the 'ugly Indian'.
Mission Eat Fruit begins
The brat, following in the footsteps of his mother, has appallingly unhealthy eating habits. Ah well, not quite as appalling as it sounds, given that he has three homecooked meals a day, and his two glasses of milk, but the fact remains that his intake of raw vegetables and fruits is at the bare minimum. Make that nil.
Ergo, when I blogged last week about his leg pains, I was swamped with concerned emails from friends and fellow bloggers with the same message coming down to me. "Make him eat fruits and especially bananas. He needs potassium."
I gritted my teeth. I am so not a fruit and veggie person and I was happily passing on my bad dietary habits to the child with absolutely zero qualms. I self flagellated myself for a bit, and then rushed out shrieking to stock up the sadly depleted fruit basket on the dining table which only daadi reaches out for in the house, the both of us, mamma and pappa being such unhealthy eaters.
I began the other day. "Brat, come eat an apple," I said. He sneered nastily into my face like I'd suggested he eat worms or something of the ilk "I donwantu eat apil. I want to eat chikkin nuggedz."
Erm.
I started on the spiel about how he needed to eat fruits and raw veggies to improve his mineral intake and to get strong and not to have his legs ache at night and such like. He heard me out calmly. Or as calmly as he could when his eyes were on the television screen which was set on Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince. "Okay Mamma." Mamma was quite surprised to see the calmness with which he accepted that he would have to increase his intake of the raw stuff.
"I'll eat fruit jellies. Is made from fruit. Is very helldy. "
Ergo, when I blogged last week about his leg pains, I was swamped with concerned emails from friends and fellow bloggers with the same message coming down to me. "Make him eat fruits and especially bananas. He needs potassium."
I gritted my teeth. I am so not a fruit and veggie person and I was happily passing on my bad dietary habits to the child with absolutely zero qualms. I self flagellated myself for a bit, and then rushed out shrieking to stock up the sadly depleted fruit basket on the dining table which only daadi reaches out for in the house, the both of us, mamma and pappa being such unhealthy eaters.
I began the other day. "Brat, come eat an apple," I said. He sneered nastily into my face like I'd suggested he eat worms or something of the ilk "I donwantu eat apil. I want to eat chikkin nuggedz."
Erm.
I started on the spiel about how he needed to eat fruits and raw veggies to improve his mineral intake and to get strong and not to have his legs ache at night and such like. He heard me out calmly. Or as calmly as he could when his eyes were on the television screen which was set on Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince. "Okay Mamma." Mamma was quite surprised to see the calmness with which he accepted that he would have to increase his intake of the raw stuff.
"I'll eat fruit jellies. Is made from fruit. Is very helldy. "
Thursday, December 08, 2011
Growing pains
When I was around brat's age, I remember ruining my mom's sleep by begging she dabbed my legs. My calves to be specific. My legs ached and ached and ached and they ached every single night. I don't really remember when they stopped aching but am sure they did because I don't remember the mater pressing the calves with maternal love when I hit college.
So last night when the brat rapped at our bedroom door gently and begged to be allowed in, I jumped up and let him in. "Mamma," he whispered, "My legz are paining. Very badly."
For a moment I panicked. Why were his legs paining? Did he hurt himself? Where were they paining, I asked him. "Here," he whispered back, telling me to "Tok soflee or Pappa will gedup and shaoud."
He lay down on the bed and I pressed his legs, acutely aware of the flashback to my childhood and my mom pressing my aching cramping legs in much the same way.
After around 15 minutes of energetic leg pressing my sleep had much dissipated and I asked the child whether that was quite enough. He nodded his head and disappeared into daadi's room, where he co-slept with her. After approximately 20 minutes there was another rap on the door. "Mamma," he hissed in faux whisper, "My legz is still painin badly."
He was allowed in, his legs pressed a while and then packed off with a heavy pillow and the advice to put said heavy pillow on his legs. Ten minutes later he was back. "Mamma, nutting is happening wid dis pillow. Is still paining badly." My heart melted over. I did some more leg pressing. He drifted off to sleep. Sadly I can't carry him anymore, he's too heavy for that now, so I woke him gently and shunted him off to the other room.
"Mamma," he said. "Thank you." And pecked me on my cheek. "Is okay now. Is nod painin. Is because you pressed it. I knewed if you pressed my legs it will stop paining."
What goes round comes round. This is karma biting me on my substantial butt for all those nights I made the mater press mine aching calves.
So last night when the brat rapped at our bedroom door gently and begged to be allowed in, I jumped up and let him in. "Mamma," he whispered, "My legz are paining. Very badly."
For a moment I panicked. Why were his legs paining? Did he hurt himself? Where were they paining, I asked him. "Here," he whispered back, telling me to "Tok soflee or Pappa will gedup and shaoud."
He lay down on the bed and I pressed his legs, acutely aware of the flashback to my childhood and my mom pressing my aching cramping legs in much the same way.
After around 15 minutes of energetic leg pressing my sleep had much dissipated and I asked the child whether that was quite enough. He nodded his head and disappeared into daadi's room, where he co-slept with her. After approximately 20 minutes there was another rap on the door. "Mamma," he hissed in faux whisper, "My legz is still painin badly."
He was allowed in, his legs pressed a while and then packed off with a heavy pillow and the advice to put said heavy pillow on his legs. Ten minutes later he was back. "Mamma, nutting is happening wid dis pillow. Is still paining badly." My heart melted over. I did some more leg pressing. He drifted off to sleep. Sadly I can't carry him anymore, he's too heavy for that now, so I woke him gently and shunted him off to the other room.
"Mamma," he said. "Thank you." And pecked me on my cheek. "Is okay now. Is nod painin. Is because you pressed it. I knewed if you pressed my legs it will stop paining."
What goes round comes round. This is karma biting me on my substantial butt for all those nights I made the mater press mine aching calves.
Sunday, December 04, 2011
Post the PTM
The brat has performed terribly. Even for a mother like me who is content to let him grow like a weed, this was crab grass level of performance. So dire and shameful, that had it been me in my youth I would have refused to return home and show said report to my progenitors. But the brat has no such misgivings.
Mamma spent the day in some sort of funk that his grades had dropped so miserably, chastising herself more than she chastised him.
The brat has also been on an extremely badly behaved, tantrummy kind of spree that is making mamma question her parenting, and everything that goes with it. Insolence, stubbornness, back answering, snarkiness and outright disobedience.
Ergo, Mamma was terribly sullen and withdrawn all of Saturday. By evening the brat was feeling distinctly nervous and uncomfortable with the sullen mamma.
He came sat in front of mamma in an attempt to make casual conversation. Discussion topic being a movie brat and mamma had watched together. Mamma's heart was not in the conversation.
He wandered off and brought back a book. Much to mamma's open mouthed shock. And began reading through it loudly and earnestly. This is a child who has to be dragged kicking and screaming towards a book. And once with a book in front of him will whine and whine till Mamma gives up attempting to make him interested in the book. And here he was reading Charlie And The Chocolate Factory (yes it is his textbook for the term) with great apparent enjoyment. Chuckling to himself, reading out bits aloud to me, and looking to me for approval. Which I gave him wholeheartedly.
The next morning, he pries my eyes open. "I want Charlie and D Grade Glass Ellivator." Okay. "An I wantu read Matilda." Sure child. "An I wantu read Charlie and Willy Wonka adventurz." Mamma's maternal heart overflew. Yes, yes, of course son, I will get you all the books you want. As long as you take an interest in reading.
Reading, mamma began, will develop your language skills, your sentence construction, help your spelling and so much more. You will do so well in Language Arts and comprehension. "Bud I don wantu read to do well in Langveg Ardz." said the brat. Mamma was puzzled, why then, she asked the brat, this sudden interest in books. "Because you ged so happy when I is readdin a buk."
Mamma spent the day in some sort of funk that his grades had dropped so miserably, chastising herself more than she chastised him.
The brat has also been on an extremely badly behaved, tantrummy kind of spree that is making mamma question her parenting, and everything that goes with it. Insolence, stubbornness, back answering, snarkiness and outright disobedience.
Ergo, Mamma was terribly sullen and withdrawn all of Saturday. By evening the brat was feeling distinctly nervous and uncomfortable with the sullen mamma.
He came sat in front of mamma in an attempt to make casual conversation. Discussion topic being a movie brat and mamma had watched together. Mamma's heart was not in the conversation.
He wandered off and brought back a book. Much to mamma's open mouthed shock. And began reading through it loudly and earnestly. This is a child who has to be dragged kicking and screaming towards a book. And once with a book in front of him will whine and whine till Mamma gives up attempting to make him interested in the book. And here he was reading Charlie And The Chocolate Factory (yes it is his textbook for the term) with great apparent enjoyment. Chuckling to himself, reading out bits aloud to me, and looking to me for approval. Which I gave him wholeheartedly.
The next morning, he pries my eyes open. "I want Charlie and D Grade Glass Ellivator." Okay. "An I wantu read Matilda." Sure child. "An I wantu read Charlie and Willy Wonka adventurz." Mamma's maternal heart overflew. Yes, yes, of course son, I will get you all the books you want. As long as you take an interest in reading.
Reading, mamma began, will develop your language skills, your sentence construction, help your spelling and so much more. You will do so well in Language Arts and comprehension. "Bud I don wantu read to do well in Langveg Ardz." said the brat. Mamma was puzzled, why then, she asked the brat, this sudden interest in books. "Because you ged so happy when I is readdin a buk."
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
Food baby
The brat, thanks to a pleasant combination of genetics and an unparalleled love for food has got a nice little rotund pot belly these days, much to the combined horror of his pater and moi. He does three days of post school karate, swims occasionally, runs around whooping and yelling for two to three hours every day, but the pot belly stays.
Initially, he was quite pleased, it made him resemble the pater even more. "I godda stomach like Pappa."
Yes, my son.
"We're machchin machchin."
Errm. It's not actually something I would want you to be matching matching about, son. And consumed with horrific stories on childhood obesity and juvenile diabetes and early onset of hypertension and such like, I would encourage him to run the minute mile a few times everyday in a bid to get him to lose weight.
But of course, mashallah, he is a child who appreciates his food. Until last night. He entered the room with an air of slight panic about him.
"Mamma, how wuz I born?"
I sat down patiently and explained how he grew in my stomach and the doctor cut my stomach and took him out.
His eyes filled up with tears, "Bud I don wan dokter to cut my stommak. I'm frightinned."
But, child, I tried to reason, why would the good doctor cut your stomach.
"Because N tole me tuday in d park that 'tere peyt mein bachcha hai'. I don want a bachcha frum my peyt."
Initially, he was quite pleased, it made him resemble the pater even more. "I godda stomach like Pappa."
Yes, my son.
"We're machchin machchin."
Errm. It's not actually something I would want you to be matching matching about, son. And consumed with horrific stories on childhood obesity and juvenile diabetes and early onset of hypertension and such like, I would encourage him to run the minute mile a few times everyday in a bid to get him to lose weight.
But of course, mashallah, he is a child who appreciates his food. Until last night. He entered the room with an air of slight panic about him.
"Mamma, how wuz I born?"
I sat down patiently and explained how he grew in my stomach and the doctor cut my stomach and took him out.
His eyes filled up with tears, "Bud I don wan dokter to cut my stommak. I'm frightinned."
But, child, I tried to reason, why would the good doctor cut your stomach.
"Because N tole me tuday in d park that 'tere peyt mein bachcha hai'. I don want a bachcha frum my peyt."
Sunday, November 27, 2011
So the brat spoke to Darsheel Safary
Ever since he saw Taare Zameen Par, the brat has been a Darsheel Safary fan. And how. A total high speed rotating PSP fan. This was further cemented when he recently saw Zokkomon and spent all his evenings wearing red full sleeved teeshirts with red track pants, tying on my yellow apron as a cape, and cutting up black pieces of plastic board meant to line the laundry basket into eye masks of the Zokkomon version.
Ergo, it wasn't far off when he finally socked me the question, "I wantu meet DarsheelSafary."
I shrugged my shoulders, like I always do when such preposterous requests are placed before me and proceeded to ignore said request completely.
It was repeated the next day and more volubly.
I ignored it again. The third day, he metaphorically sat on my head and wore me down into at least saying I'd try to get him to meet Darsheel Safary. I wish I had a parent who would agree to try to get me to meet George Clooney, but that's another post and not in consonance with the kiddy blog so won't go there now.
In my misery, I tweeted asking for help to get the brat a meeting with Zokkomon boy. And a kind soul from twitter promised to get the brat to speak with Zokkomon. And no, I'm not going to name that person, but let it be known that said person rocks.
So it happened, that one gentle evening, when the sun hung over the horizon like a ball of orange, the phone rang with private number flashing on screen. I answered the call. From the office of Darsheel Safary said a kindly, maternal voice. I handed the instrument to the brat and asked him to speak. Darsheel was on the line. His jaw clanged to the floor. It took him a moment to push it back into position. And he said a soft hello. And said jaw dropped right to the floor again. No words came from his mouth except, "What are you doing?" which is his standard telephone line across all conversations. The conversation lasted all of 30 seconds. It must have been Darsheel carrying on a one sided conversation since the only other words that came from brat's mouth were, "Okay, bye." And he handed the phone back to me, his eyes shining with excitement. "Darsheel Safary spoke tu me!"
"He callt me up."
"I'm his fren" By the time the next morning arrived, this had morphed to becoming "Darsheel Safary's besfren on phone."
By the time he went down to the park in the evening, it had further morphed to long hour long conversations he was having everyday with said child star which I was quick to gently dissuade.
So now, the brat wants to be signed up at Shiamak Davar's to become a movie star. And I have to ask Aamir Khan if he's making another movie and needs another boy to act. The maternal line will be firmly drawn at the second request. Our kahaani is already poori filmy to begin with.
Ergo, it wasn't far off when he finally socked me the question, "I wantu meet DarsheelSafary."
I shrugged my shoulders, like I always do when such preposterous requests are placed before me and proceeded to ignore said request completely.
It was repeated the next day and more volubly.
I ignored it again. The third day, he metaphorically sat on my head and wore me down into at least saying I'd try to get him to meet Darsheel Safary. I wish I had a parent who would agree to try to get me to meet George Clooney, but that's another post and not in consonance with the kiddy blog so won't go there now.
In my misery, I tweeted asking for help to get the brat a meeting with Zokkomon boy. And a kind soul from twitter promised to get the brat to speak with Zokkomon. And no, I'm not going to name that person, but let it be known that said person rocks.
So it happened, that one gentle evening, when the sun hung over the horizon like a ball of orange, the phone rang with private number flashing on screen. I answered the call. From the office of Darsheel Safary said a kindly, maternal voice. I handed the instrument to the brat and asked him to speak. Darsheel was on the line. His jaw clanged to the floor. It took him a moment to push it back into position. And he said a soft hello. And said jaw dropped right to the floor again. No words came from his mouth except, "What are you doing?" which is his standard telephone line across all conversations. The conversation lasted all of 30 seconds. It must have been Darsheel carrying on a one sided conversation since the only other words that came from brat's mouth were, "Okay, bye." And he handed the phone back to me, his eyes shining with excitement. "Darsheel Safary spoke tu me!"
"He callt me up."
"I'm his fren" By the time the next morning arrived, this had morphed to becoming "Darsheel Safary's besfren on phone."
By the time he went down to the park in the evening, it had further morphed to long hour long conversations he was having everyday with said child star which I was quick to gently dissuade.
So now, the brat wants to be signed up at Shiamak Davar's to become a movie star. And I have to ask Aamir Khan if he's making another movie and needs another boy to act. The maternal line will be firmly drawn at the second request. Our kahaani is already poori filmy to begin with.
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