Wednesday, November 24, 2010

In which the brat becomes a VH1 addict

Thanks to random surfing of the channels a couple of days ago, the brat chanced upon Justin Bieber doing what he does best, in some random song which involved a lot of dancing, hooded sweatshirts and babes draping themselves on the disgustingly un acned creature.

I tell the child that had Justin Bieber been a regular high school kid he would have been held upside down head into the commode by the school jocks, but his adoration refuses to abate. So he sat and stared open mouthed at the screen. Then he rose and did the Bieber moves.

"Lookit me Mamma. See I'm dancing like Justinbeeber!"

Mamma looked and looked at the screen where the song was fast getting over and then Enrique Inglesias came on the screen singing, "Baby I like it!" The brat sat right back and grabbed the remote from Mamma's hands and continued to stare goggle eyed at Enrique being, well, Enrique. Then Justin Timberlake came on. And then Britney with Madonna. And it went on.

Let's change the channel suggested mamma, gently, when the song ended. The brat sat firmly and definitely on the remote to prevent mamma from getting access to it.

"No. I wantu see how dey are dancing. And singing."

Brat, pleaded mamma, in her politest wheedling voice, we have homework to do, and miles to go before we sleep.

"Arey, if I don see, how I'll make my video an become a popshtar?"

Monday, November 22, 2010

The brat gets "Fame uz"

So the brat was in the newspapers yesterday. He quickly appropriated the page with his image on it and folded it in origami carefulness, and stuck it inside his school bag.

"I will showtu my frens," he declared, as he walked of to the elevator bank from the house.

By the time we reached the ground floor, he had fished it out again and opened it out carefully and marched purposefully to the nightshift watchman who was still dozing on his feet.

"Dekho, uncle," he commanded in imperious tone, rooster chest swollen to helium levels. "Mera photo."

Uncle in question opened glazed eyes and tried hard to focus.

"Newspaper mein. Mera. Aur mere mamma ka photo."

Much lauding and wah wahing happened. Assorted drivers and cleaning men who tend to congregate in the lobby at that hour also closed in to see what was being displayed, and additional lauding happened.

The brat strutted out, carefully refolding newspaper clipping, and putting it back into his bag.

"To whom will you show this article at school."

He thought deep. He thought hard.

"I will tell my teacher to pud it on d notissboard so eveybuddy can read it. Eveybuddy will come and sek my han."

When mamma picked him up from school in the afternoon, she enquired kindly whether the clipping in question made it to the noticeboard.

"I forgod tu show it to my teacher. Never mind. Tomorrow's artikul I will pud up on d notiss board."

Err?

Ahem Ahem

http://www.mumbaimirror.com/article/9/2010112220101122020454714cf4a166d/The-mother-of-blogs.html

Friday, November 19, 2010

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Krish and the Bieber hairdo
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Tuesday, November 16, 2010

I want to be Bieber

The brat has his first official rockstar crush. And its on Justin Bieber. Much to my dismay. I hate the hair. But then I'm sure my mother hated George Michael's hair too. He comes into the office and begins his day with You Smile, I Smile, then goes on to something else which is about someone's whole heart, Baby, then some recycled old hits Love Me Love Me, which shocks him that I know, and a Savage Garden reworked version of Truly Madly Deeply. Finally, I think, he feels his mom is on fraction percentage of coolth.

He sits with adoring hangdog expression as the videos play out at full volume on the computer making it impossible for mamma to concentrate on her work. He dances along on Mamma's shaky loft making the floor shudder. He whines incessantly about wanting to wear "Cool clodz like Justinbeeber"

And worse, he wants to go to Canada to meet the Bieber himself. Failing which, he demands mamma track down the Bieber's number and call him so that the brat can engage in a little chat with him. Therefore he hangs onto mamma's typing arm demanding she "Go to Googils search" and find out the needed phone number. Mamma tracked down a number which the phone operator disembodied voice claimed this phone number was not valid. He didnt trust mamma's dialing skills and dialed again, himself. Only to hear the same voice whine that we needed to check the number dialed. And so he checked it again. And then had a rolling on the floor tantrum when he realised that the number was the same one shown on the Googils search.

At night he crawled into bed next to me with abject pleading expression which I viewed with suspicion. 'Mamma I wantu wear cool clodz like Justinebeeber."

"You have enough and more cool clothes," I replied firmly.

"No, no, I wantu wear sukdu jeans. And jakkids with hoods in white colour. And chains. And the white shuz. An a cap with NYC written in d middil."

Mamma shuddered at the visual imagery this was conjuring up.

"An I wantu comb my hair ontop of my face."

At this gooseflesh immediately populated the skin on Mamma's arms.

"No way," she said firmly. "Im taking you for a hair cut tomorrow."

He burst into loud sobs. "You will never led me be cool. Everyone will laffatme. Justinbeeber willna be my fren."

When the brat become a teenager?

Monday, November 15, 2010

All hail the new carrom king


The resort we stayed at in Goa had swimming. Cycling. Water Sports. A jungle gym and play area. Croquette. Yoga. And of course, a kid's room. Infested with, lord save us, DVDs of cartoons and assorted kiddy movies and the playstation. The brat spotted the little board indicating the direction to the kids room on day one itself but due to unscheduled trip to Baga, had to defer his plans to investigate said room till the next day.
The next morning dawned bright and early. He hopped onto my snoring stomach and prised my eyes open. "Mamma. I wantu gotu d kidzroom. Now."
I peeled my eyes open and looked groggily at the watch. For obvious reasons, the eyes felt sandpapered. "Its only 8 am, dear child," I said. The kids room opens at 10 am, I informed him. He bounded off my stomach with the kind of alertness I would go down on bended knee should it happen on a school day morning.
"Okay, letsh have a bath and brush the teethz and be ready by 10 oclock. And finish our breakfasht." The pappa and I were in no mood to be bathed and breakfasted by 10 am. This was after all, a holiday. We had license to wake at hours when breakfast and lunch could be combined.
The pappa though, wakes up at ungodly hours most mornings, before even the early bird has scrubbed their beaks in preparation for the morning wormly parcel, and was already stirring.
We woke up. Breakfasted. And took ourselves to the kiddy room to drop the brat in. He entered like the proverbial kid entering a candy store, bug eyed with wonder. "Dere's a PSP," he squawked, unable to contain his excitement. We left, having administered dire warnings to behave and to do the occasional puzzle and book reading and not lavish all his attention on the PSP.
In the evening, post lunch, he began his I want to go to the kids room whine whine whine again. Ever notice how kids have the ability to keel you over with their whining, until you buckle down and beg them to shut up or are made of sterner stuff and just ducttape their mouths up?
I buckle. I began taking him down to the kids room. And then I passed a notice board which had a list of activities pasted on, activities for kids. Among those was a football camp. "Come on brat," I said. "Let's go to play football." He draped himself on the railing like the limp asparagus he was and dithered and dathered. 'Fifteen minutes of football, " I bargained. "And then you can go to the kids room." I prayed that the football would be fun enough for him to forget all thoughts of the kids room.
We landed at the meeting spot for the football camp. Right next to the games area. With a table tennis table and a carrom board. No one else had turned up for the camp from amongst the kids at the resort.
"What I'll do? Lets go to the activity room, I will play PSP," the brat got into whine mode.
Come, lets play some table tennis. Given that his head barely bobbed above the table, that was a sure flop. Lets try out carrom, mamma tried. Last ditch effort at keeping him out of the activity room. He sat. The lad manning the games joined him. They played one round. The brat was hooked. He played and played. Moving all around the table to fire his shots. Moving the coins to suit his trajectory of aim. Cheating shamelessly. It was evening before we knew it. He called his father to join him. Father and son spent the evening playing carrom, while mamma swatted away the mosquitoes. He was dragged away with great force when it was time for dinner.
The next morning, he sat on my stomach again before my eyes could open. "Gerrup mamma. Letsh gotu play carrom."

Friday, November 12, 2010

The brat in Goa (part 2)

Since we landed in time for breakfast, breakfast it had to be. Mamma and Pappa were interested in exploring the premises. And vast the premises were. A long long pool that snaked around the property, huge lawns, game and activity areas, a watersports area and a beach shack. But was the brat interested in any of these? Nope. "Lesh have breakfasht. I'm starving."
So breakfast it was. "Gimme sosaj. Gimme Chocos. Gimme idli wid d sambar pud on top."
Post brekkers, we drove off to Baga.
The brat nodded off in the back seat, fed and sated, waking up only when we reached to demand lunch.
He watched all the watersports going on upfront with a disdainful eye. "Peepul are paying money to gerthrown in d water!" He gasped. "How stoopit!"
When it was time for the father and him to go into the sea he went in quite happily and then howled when a surly wave chucked him quite rudely back on the sand. "I got alldsandinmymaoud," he gasped, in most injured tones while Pappa laughed unconcernedly. "Now my teeth is sand teeth!"

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The brat in Goa

We landed in Goa Thursday morning. The flight was at an ungodly hour of 5 am. Which meant check in at 4am. Which meant mamma set the alarm for 3am meaning to get dressed and bathed by three thirty and haul snoring brat changed into tshirt and jeans whilst still in deep sleep into car. Only when the alarm buzzed, the brat clambered onto mamma's stomach which is his loving way of saying good morning these days.
"Mamma," he squawked, "is dark morning. Gerrup. Is time to go to goa."
Mamma hauled her reluctant carcass up while the brat speedraced himself through potty, bathing, dressing up etc so he was the first ready of the three of us.
At the airport the check in queue was interminable. The brat stood patiently. Wide awake. "When weell reach Goa?"
He was assured of a hour's flight distance away to his destination. We were then put onto a bus that took us from santacruz airport to the flight which was at sahar airport. The bus ride seemed interminable. "Mamma," he squawked again in much distress. "Dey is taking us to Goa by bus. Deys not going to take us by aeroplane!"
Finally after what did seem like half the way to Goa, we reached the aircraft and enplaned. Pappa was assigned a seat right at the back while mamma and brat were up front. Consequently, the brat spent most of his flight, much to mamma's consternation, kneeling on his seat facing the back of the plane, calling out to his father to join us.

Goa reached, the hotel rose before us like a verdant paradise wreathed in frangipani and palm trees. "Ahhhhh, I laike dis Goa!" the brat exclaimed, jaw at ground level. "Lesh stay here forever!"

(To be continued)

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Thursday, November 04, 2010

Of technical tachneeks

The father bought us a new camera. The old one had long given up the ghost in elaborate shuddering manner and died on us.
We were thus relegated to begging near and dear folkses to bring along their cameras for important occasions in our lives and then keep hounding them to upload pics.
Somehow, a camera never made it to the spouse's list of priority buys through an entire year. Therefore, this time, when it was being discussed as to what should be purchased for Dhanteras, mamma yelled "camera, camera" in tones so shrill that the father was terrified he might be drawn and quartered should he not comply. Ergo said camera. Which was promptly appropriated by the brat.
"Is my camera no Pappa?" He asked grinning wide enough to merit a toll booth at the end of his smile. The pappa nodded distractedly. "Oney fer me no Pappa?" He is a child who needs confirmation of things.
He then looked at me. "Iz my camera mamma" he stated. "Nod fer you. Oney I will use it!"
He promptly began fiddling with it. "I know how to use it. "
He clicked a picture of mamma. Totally out of focus. Like the Bride of Frankenstein. "See mamma I clicked yer picshur!"
Mamma thinks soft focus is how all pictures should be taken henceforth. "Is good no?" Mamma agreed wholeheartedly. "Pappa," he went to display said work of art, "see dis picshur. Is so good. Now I know all the takneeks of phodograffs!"
Maybe mamma can commission the brat for her book jacket mugshot.

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Tuesday, November 02, 2010

The brat in office

The Diwali vacations have begun. Ergo, the brat spends most of his days at the office ensuring that no one gets a good day's work done, and that half the staff spends their day with an expression of permanent terror on their faces, awaiting the world to start falling down on their heads.

Let me describe the office. The location is a shop converted into an office in a residential area, all lush and green and opening directly onto a road that has minimal traffic but still is a road. The points of attraction are a toy shop and a shop selling icecreams and assorted non healthy beverages located at either end of the complex we are in. Ergo, at any given point in time the brat could make the minute mile dash to the either extreme to get what his heart desires.

Add to this, I sit on the loft extension, in a bid to be as distantly placed from the spouse who has a cabin on the ground level, and absolutely no concept of what constitutes decibels levels of conversations into telephones which are considerate to other people around trying to concentrate on their work. Ergo, the brat will want to clamber up and down the rather steep stairs some one zillion times in a bid to convince me that he needs Ben 10 tattoos now or his life would be forever ruined.

After a point in time he will turn to 'Googilz Surch' and keep clambering up and down demanding I spell out the names of whichever superhero he is keen to find games on. We have, through persistent efforts, even managed to find Batman, Superman, Spiderman and Ironman combined in single games where it seems like the superheroes are engaged in some sort of censorable activity rather than ridding the world of all the 'evilz'. After decimating the world, hunger will strike and inevitably the whining will start for all sorts of junk items of ingestion. Read pizzas, burgers, and the ilk. Mamma will dissuade him gently and attempt to steer him towards the carefully packed lunch box comprising a dal, a vegetable, some rotis and rice. But of course, healthy food has no takers.

By the time it is post lunch, and his eyes start glazing over with sleep, it is time to pick him up kicking and squealing to drag him home. Where he will crash out on the bed and snore open mouthed till it is evening and time to go down to the compound and the park and damage eardrums with his tipki gun.

Mamma prefers school days.