Friday, December 31, 2010

And wish you a Happy 2011 too!

Conversation between Mamma and brat in the pitch dark bedroom.

Brat: Mamma, it will be newyear tomorrow?

Mamma, being dragged through the Stgyx by the horses of Hades and therefore not concentrating too well on the questions being asked of her. "Yes, son, tomorrow will be the New Year."

Brat: Den wat will happen to the oleyear?

Mamma: 2010 will get over and 2011 will begin. It will be a new year, we will put up a new calendar.

Brat: An in Oktuber I will hab a new budday?

Mamma: Err, yes.

Brat: An den in the New Year, I can get new Beyblades.

Mamma: No. No More Beyblades.
Said in tones that made the snoring pappa stop snoring momentarily and open one eye to survey the discussion underway.

Brat: Den wot is the point of having a newyear.

Wednesday, December 22, 2010

Absolutely Everybody....

The brat had his annual day yesterday. In keeping with a new trend set by the school since the previous year, the annual day concert is held in an open air ground which is practically next door from home, and given that it is the thick end of December bitingly cold (for cold blooded creatures like me, am surely descended from the reptiles) and with the mossies in full biting mode, this is not an experience I enjoy. Spare the five minutes that the brat will be on stage, shaking his booty.

The costume this time was a black satin shirt with ruffled sleeves in multicoloured layers of sequinned fabric and black leatherite pants. Like any mother would, I thanked my stars it was full sleeved and long trousered. I remembered one year when the brat played an African native and his costume comprised a short skirt and a garland of leaves, and I spent all my time going backstage to ensure he had clothed himself in a pullover and proper long trousers I had given the teacher, given that they spent the better part of two hours in the wings waiting for the show get going and their moment under the spotlights to arrive.

Still for all, mamma wasnt going to take a chance this time around. He was bundled into a full sleeved body fitting tee under the black satin ruffled shirt much to his disgust and given a hoodie to wear over both until he was to get onto the stage. And mamma kept walking the entire distance between the parents seating enclosure to the shamianas where the kids were herded, busy engaging in fist fights of the most vile order while the teachers tried vainly to bring them to some semblance of order.

The show? I wasnt impressed. I'm a tough critic. I thought the script was the work of a writer smoking something illegal. The speech and drama part of it all had uninspiring dialogue and performances that were at the best stilted. The songs chosen for the dances, in keeping with the rather vague theme of 'A world without boundaries" (which according to me should have focussed on communication, starting from wireless, to telephone and then to the internet, and the miracles of a true world without boundaries, but since no one asked me I'm keeping zipped) were rather dull. But the kids danced their hearts out. And the brat came on. His eyes twinkling, a huge grin splitting his face. And I forgot the chill seeping into my bones, the mosquitoes buzzing in my ears, and the irritation at feeling my stomach growling. It is a clench your heart in your chest moment when you see your child up there on stage. God help me, my eyes were tearing over so much I could barely see him. He danced, he jumped, he had a great time.

And when I went to collect him, "Mamma, where's Pappa? He seed me dancing? You seed me dancing? How I danced?"

"Very well, my son! You danced brilliantly!" Mamma hastened to reassure him and simultaneously get him into a hoodie sweatshirt given that he had discarded the ruffled shirt because "Id was scatchy on my hans."

"I have decided. I'm going to become a dancer when I grow up. Like Justin Beeber. You make my video and put id on Utoob and sen it to Usher. Den I'll become famuz."

Err. You also need to know how to sing and play a musical instrument, child, for that. He looked at me incredulously. "Is so easy to sing," and belted out the entire lyrics to Love Me at one go.
Now, he insisted. Make the Youtube video and send it to Usher. Or who is the Usher of India? I'm still asking around for an answer to that one.

Monday, December 20, 2010

Of sports day and unsporting genes

So it was the brat's sports day yesterday and in a definitive declaration of where he gets his sporting genes from, he came firmly second last in both the races that he ran. But by God, he ran, he ran the fastest I have ever seen him running all his life, unfortunately his fastest was not fast enough. Never mind. He will revolutionise the world of Beyblade gaming, for sure.

The high point of the morning though was the cheerleading dance. When the brat mentioned it to me, I kind of snorted. "You are a cheerleader?"

Visions of Mena Suvari in American Beauty were clouding my gaze. "How can you be a cheerleader, brat?" I asked in all seriousness. "Cheerleaders are girls, in short skirts, doing all sorts of dancing with pompoms."

"I gotta pompom. I god two pompoms. In perpil colour. I gotta shake them all over my head and we dancing to Waka Waka. Which country Shakira comes from?"

True to his current fascination of countries of origin, the topic then digressed to Columbia and where it was on the map and whether Shakira is actually a She-Wolf or she is "jus predending."

The sports day dawned and the cheerleaders ran out with their shiny pom poms and a cuter sight was ne'er seen. And the brat danced his heart out. Now I know why he insisted mamma put Waka Waka as her ring tone, that too in volumes loud enough to wake the dead from the crematorium in the next suburb.

I leave you, dear readers, with images of the sweater clad purple pom pom waving cheerleader.

Wednesday, December 15, 2010

Of Sleeping Arrangements

The mamma and the brat are yawning in their seats. The brat is doing some Ben 10 sketching, his current favourite hobby apart from Beyblade matches which have him as undisputed champion.
So brat, says mamma, let's to bed.
Let us sleep in the udder room. Together. What about pappa, mamma asks gently, as the floor trembles delicately under Papa's snores.
Let him sleep alone, comes the prompt disdainful reply. He's a beeg chile now.

Sent from BlackBerry® on Airtel

Monday, December 13, 2010

Just. Because.

Brat mugshots down the years.

And that is how the baby became a beeg boy!

Sunday, December 12, 2010

And we made new Brudders

The brat was off to Kolkata for the weekend. Because his mamma was off to Kolkata. And along with him for the trip was Ayaan, fellow mommy blogger Rohini's kiddo. Because this was a kind of blogfriends meet up. The fun began at the airport. Both brats with their respective backpacks. Ayaan with his tiny cute tortoiseshell patterned backpack, and my brat with his humungous Ben 10 schoolbag from the previous year which is now his official inflight bag and must necessarily be stuffed to bursting capacity with assorted action figures and miniature models of modes of transport.

The running around began at the airport itself, while their respective mothers tried to get check in done without incident. Running around at top speed, hiding in varying corners, and for my brat, investigating the offerings at a fast food stall in plaintive contemplation given that in his excitement he had skipped lunch.

In the flight, the duo sat together. Which was probably what made us The Most Hated Group of Passengers on the entire flight. Much screaming at ear piercing decibels happened while the flight took off and landed. Make that four times given we had a stopover at Nagpur. The unfortunates seated in front of us bore the brunt of much excited kicking. And many crossed themselves and said their Hanuman Chalisas when the both brats discussed in loud tones what would happen if the plane crashed over the sea and broke into bits or caught fire and other such possible scenarios one does not like to contemplate when one is midair.

Much sitting on each others laps later, daggers were drawn over random toys and mayhem ensued. The brat would ask Ayaan plaintively, "Yer nod my fren?" and in response, Ayaan would try to staple his lips together with his fingers. This continued for the better part of the last hour.

The love hate relationship continued. Ayaan taught Krish the basics of geography, including the fact that Punjab and Calcutta are in India and India is in Asia, and that Ayaan would 'Never ever" want to do XYZ, and that Nagpur was the heart of India. And in return Krish taught him his patented phrase "Bad luck Kharaab hai," and initiated him and the utterly adorable pipsqueak called Bhablet to the world of Ben 10. 'You are my brudder," declared Ayaan in a moment of magnamity. Krish squawked in protest. "How can I be your brudder. Den how will I be your fren?" They reached some measure of happy compromise where they agreed to be fren brudders. And Ayaan announced so to a little boy who was in the row behind. "This is Krish. He is my brother friend." The little boy in the back row accepted that declaration calmly without demanding an explanation of the term. Perhaps a new phrase will be now coined in Indian English in the true tradition of Cousin Brother and Cousin Sister. The next day, the trio collectively decimated New Market in the true tradition set by Brats and Bhablets much to the panic of the shopkeepers who hastily gathered their wares to themselves and shooed us away in quite not so polite terms after one careful display of helicopters had been toppled to the ground unceremoniously. And then there was lunch at an old Bengali home converted into a restaurant, the boys ran amuck as boys are meant to do, with us mothers protesting weakly that they were meant to be seated at their chairs in a public place and not move unless asked to.

This was the stuff that male bonding was made of. I can well see them 20 years down the line, sprawled in similar fashion on the sofa, watching a cricket match instead of Ben 10.And maybe the Bhablet will still be jabbering away in nonstop bengali to both of the brats, which they will painstakingly try and decode.   And their mammas will look on in pride at the Brudder Frens.

Monday, December 06, 2010

Of the brat, the storyteller.

The brat sat down at Nana's house yesterday, five fullscape sheets in his hand and a pencil in the other. His brow furrowed deep in concentration.

And he began writing. And writing. Nana was snoring on the sofa in most inelegant manner, and none to pleased at being constantly roused to provide the spelling for random words. Mamma was shaken awake and called upon to provide illustrations at appropriate junctions to keep the visual interest alive in the epic tale unfolding.

By the time Nana and Mamma had woken from the afternoon sleep of the dead, or rather of those who have ingested too much food for their own good, the brat had four pages done of densely written script and Mamma's illustrations had been coloured in shades so violent, Mamma's eyes hurt looking on them.

"See, Mamma, I made a book."

Which was technically true because he had even neatly stapled the pages together down the spine.

"Is a funny story. Is about a boy who can be many alienz."

Err, where had I heard that before.

"His name is Ben 10, see, see," this by physically rotating my head towards the paper in question. "Lookit lookit. See I wrote the entire story. On my own. Readitnow."

Mamma read it now. The plot comprised basically the various aliens Ben 10 encountered, and the dialogue was a variation on Let us fight now and I will kill you.

He had even added some Booms and Bams for auditory effect.

Mamma paled at the terrible spellings and resisted taking the pen to copy check the pages.

"It's lovely, darling," she told the mite who was hanging onto her arm expectantly. "Now send it to the printer and make it a printed book."

Err, brat, you will need to write a little more for it to get printed.

We returned from nana's house and he sat determinedly and wrote out two more pages of similar action scenes till 11.30 pm, making mamma sit at the side to provide spellings on demand. Finally he decided his masterpiece was perfect and handed it across to mamma, whose head was falling off her neck from sleepiness.

"I finisht it. Now give it to printing. And den I'll become fam-uz!"

Mamma hugged him. And then told him he had better show it to his class teacher first. An idea he was rather enthusiastic about. So the manuscript has gone to school today.

We will be fam-uz tomorrow.

Wednesday, December 01, 2010

I is d Beyblade champion

The kids in the building have a new obsession going around, and it comprises them little plastic top like things made up of multiple pieces that parents have to assemble and which keep falling to the ground every five seconds when you've just managed to get one part fixed up and are fumbling around for the second to keep it steady and then you curse and yell and hop around and instruct the child to find the damn fallen part instead of standing around vacantly and expecting the infernal things to come together in graphic 3D animation form as shown in them damn cartoon serials which inspire the purchase of these.
As you can see, Mamma, is quite upto her nose with these little spinning tops called Beyblades which have taken up an entire bedside table leaving absolutely no space for her books or her mobile or even space to keep a bottle of water at night, so she ends up keeping said bottle next the bed and waking up in the middle of the night with a pressing need to make a visit to the facilities and stepping straight on said bottle, slipping, falling and then cussing violently in the dark of the night and generally making a nuisance of herself.
To get back to the Beyblades, in the good old days, we had tops. Tops made of wood, which were then looped around with a thick cord, then skilfully realised to have the top spin to eternity. These plastic infernals, firstly cost you an arm and a leg and a tooth. Then you do the hopping, cussing bit while trying to assemble it and then the pintsize will strut off to the building lobby, where an assemblage of motley sizes will battle it out for a championship of sorts.

"One two and led it rippp...." squealed the brat, as mamma passed them last evening. Mamma stopped in her tracks to listen more to this new improved brat avatar. "What is let it rip, Brat?" she asked.

"Don dishturb me. My beyblait is winning."

He stared at them whirring infernal tops in a plastic bucket, totally inappropriately pink given the male populace that was engaging in this combat sport.

The tops spun at differing speeds and petered down and one top continued whirring while the rest lost their spin. The brat jumped up, punched the air and began hooting in joy, "I is the winner, I is the champiyun!" Mamma gasped in shock and horror at the new improved version of the brat, and decided that this was imitation of the characters in said cartoon serials.

The champion Beyblade was picked up by the champion Beyblader. "My mamma fixt my Beyblade," he announced proudly to his sundry pals. "She fixt it strongly. Thaswhy is a champion Beyblade."  Before she could flee from the scene, Mamma was inundated with requests to fix some dozens of Beyblades. Requests to which the brat took major umbrage. "Is my mamma. Go ask yer mammas to fix yers."