abu & rabad

“I want water”

It was 10pm. Rabad should have been asleep about an hour ago, but wasn’t. So she was slightly cranky too. But every once in a while, we decide that spoonfeeding is not on.

“Go get it yourself from the fridge.”

“But it dark there.”

After about 5 minutes of fruitlessly trying to convince her that she shouldn’t be afraid of the dark, and that she should quickly go to the fridge and get the water, I asked Meetu to check if the kitchen was indeed dark. We can see the dining room / kitchen from our bedroom if we crane our neck a bit. The dining room light was in fact on!

“The light is on. It is not dark. Go get water.”

Rabad remained unmoved. She was still afraid and wanted one of us to accompany her. I doubt she was very thirsty, but this unqueched desire for water that her parents weren’t fulfilling was preventing her from falling asleep, and she was getting crankier by the minute. So finally I worked out some compromise where in return for me coming with her to the kitchen, she would give up some privilege (the details are unimportant for this story) at a later date.

So I walked over to the kitchen with her and she got her water.

“See, it is not dark or scary in here. You could have come by yourself.”

“No but it is dark in the guest bedroom.”

The guest bedroom is the next room after the dining room.

“The water is not in the guest bedroom, you don’t have to go there.” I point out (feeling like congratulating myself with a ‘Logic meiN tum se koi nahiN jeet sakta Tarneja!’)

I think Rabad saw the inexorable power of my logic, but she had an ace up her sleeve.

“My brain told me.”

Being in the company of my kids for so long, I’ve become good at putting two and two together.

“Your brain told you to be afraid?”

“Yes.”

I think Shakespeare was saying pretty much the same thing when he said, “for there is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so.” And that is also more or less what they taught Meetu during 10 days of Vipassana.

“Why did your brain tell you to be afraid?”

“Because ants might come from there.”

I gave her a what-kind-of-a-silly-excuse-is-that look.

With an expression and tone that clearly indicated that she felt my pain, but she was powerless to do anything about it because it wasn’t her fault, she said, “It is a baby brain, you know.”

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Yesterday, I took Abu to the grocery. He loves going to the grocery because he gets to sit in the grocery cart while I push him around the store. We were doing this and and we were having some random conversation about buying Pepsi and Gatorade and brands of cereal, in general some nice father-son bonding, when half way through, he started squeaking instead of speaking normally. I looked at him with raised eyebrows.

“Papa, I am losing my voice,” he squeaked.

“Okay,” I said. This is not the first time he’d done this, so I just continued with shopping, as if nothing had happened.

“…..,” said Abu. Basically he just moved his lips, and no voice came out.

“I have no idea what you are saying, Abu.”

“…..,” mouthed Abu again. He even made some gestures that I did not understand. I shook my head.

Abu decided that this was not working, so magically, he got some of his voice back.

In a very low whisper, he said, “Papa, I …….” I did not understand the rest of what he said as he said it too softly.

“What?”

He gestured for me to bring my ear closer to his mouth. As I bent forward, he pointed upwards. This is a two-level grocery, and we could see half of the first floor from the ground floor where we were standing. He was pointing towards the first floor and whispered, “Papa, I think it is gone somewhere there.”

“Your voice has gone somewhere on the first floor, that is why you are unable to speak?”

He nodded his head vigorously, like a proud teacher who has just made his student understand some complex concept. So I gave him an understanding nod and continued with shopping.

He pulled my sleeve, and when I looked at him, gestured me again to come closer.

“Papa,” he whispered.

It was really difficult to hear this low whisper in the crowded, noisy grocery. He was trying to help along with hand gestures.

“Papa, I will t.. s…….. ….” the last part was unintelligible.

“You will what?”

“t.. s…….. …,” accompanied with one had going around another.

“You will tie something?”

Again the delighted nodding of the head. This had now pretty much turned into a dump charades game.

“Papa I will tie something w… a r…, ” now an action like throwing out a fishing line and reeling it in.

“You will tie something with a rope?”

Correct.

Rabad was away for a 2-hour drawing class. Meetu was off working (i.e. watching movies). So I was in no hurry to finish off the shopping. So in the middle of the grocery aisle, our game continued. Probably in his excitement, Abu whispered a little louder than before, so I got the whole sentence:

“Papa I will tie something with a rope and then pull it.”

Huh?!

“What?”

He is still talking in a whisper, but I have my ear close to his mouth, and the music system is playing some sad, soft number instead of a loud “Sinngh is Kinng” remix, so I can hear him (although barely).

“Papa I will tie something with a rope. Something that the voice likes. Then I will pull it. And the voice will come behind it, and I will catch it.”

Glad to have that cleared out, we continued with shopping. At the checkout counter, I was pretty much composing this blog post in my head, and noticed Abu throwing his imaginary rope towards the first floor and pulling it in.

Sure enough, by the time I had paid the bill, Abu says: “Papa, did you notice that I can talk now?” Yup! “I tried that idea and it worked!”

Maybe I should give Scott Adams this advice for his voice problems.

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