Our daughter’s plan to stay with us for a month along with her 3-year-old sent all three elderly inmates at home—my wife, my father and me—to action mode. The fledgling, overactive boy was replete with highly explorative spirits. Except while in sleep, his nimble fingers reflexively experimented with anything accessible in the kitchen, wardrobe, fridge, backyard or bathroom— wherever his vision could reach. In the process of minimising risk to the exuberant child from electrical points, loose medicine vials, sharp utensils and potentially hazardous materials, a great thing happened: unwanted clothes, papers and sundry non-descript articles were weeded out.
The child’s visit meant sunshine, intermittently necessary for eliminating the possibility of a home turning rather drab and desolate. As the D-Day arrived, the air was full of happiness.
Running water was particularly dear to him. Our eyes were mostly glued to his activities yet he could find slots when others’ eyes were elsewhere. Then he would sneakily hurry towards the wash basin, open the tap full, wash his hands and return innocently, leaving the water running. The act satisfied his urge to accomplish a big task. Each time he demanded water, he required two tumblers. Water had to be poured from a larger tumbler into a smaller one and then consumed in parts.
Yet only half the time the demand was genuine. On the rest of occasions, he would playfully pour water from one tumbler to another for a while and then abruptly empty the entire glass on the floor and splash it all over. That the other person was avoidably burdened to clean his hands and wipe the floor hardly occurred to the little angel. When it turns 9 every morning, I would be getting ready to leave for office. And every time I changed my outfit, he would bring his sandals and utter the words, “Ghumi, ghumi” (walking out!). He assumed that I would take him out.
Our efforts to dissuade him from the kitchen, sometimes by bolting the kitchen door appeared to whet his longing for culinary ambience and at any opportunity he would rush in and return with a wok, fork, bhagona or ladle to beat one with another to create sounds. “He would be a great chef,” my wife often commented. Upon being noticed of having committed an offence or sensing that the other person was angry because of him, he would come close and lovingly caress the cheek with a long smile prompting us to condone his mischief. The day the angel left for Mumbai with his mom, it was shivering winter in Delhi. We wished that his second coming shall not be far behind.
Harish Barthwal
Email: teenbarthwal@gmail.com