“You know, Pappa, the earth is going to finish.”

My first instinct was to say What Rubbish and follow it up with an admonition that she shouldn’t listen to any crap that any of her friends tell her, without clearing it with Pappa or Mamma first. Wiser sense prevailed, and I decided on a gentler approach.

“Really? When is it going to finish?” I asked, in the spirit of scientific enquiry.

“In some weeks,” said Rabad, as if delivering a diagnosis of terminal cancer to concerned relatives.

Now her friends joined in.

“You did not see that TV program, uncle?” accused one of them. This is the one who has apparently educated Rabad about this latest crisis afflicting us.

Apparently I don’t watch the right TV programs.

“No, I did not,” I said and asked, “How is the world going to end?”

“All the trees,” Rabad said, pointing towards the trees around our building, “are going to get cut.” She made a chopping motion with her hand, and had an angry frown on her face.

And the girl who was apparently the source of this knowledge pointed out, “Then all the leaves will be gone. Then there will be no oxygen. Then we’ll all die.”

You really can’t argue with that. It is true.

“I think what you should do is to plant some trees” I suggested.

“Yeah!” said all of them, almost a chorus, their eyes lighting up.

Encouraged, I continued, “Each of you should plant one tree. And you know what, you should go to Shaligram aunty on the 10th floor, and tell her that each of you wants to plant a tree. To save the earth.” Mrs. Shaligram is one of the residents who takes an interest in the gardening of the apartment complex, and is the kind of sweet person who would love to encourage the environment awareness amongst the kids.

So I finished with, “I just want to point out to you – the world is not going to end in a few weeks; it will take many, many, many, many years. But you’re right, it will end if all the trees get cut down. So go, and plant trees with Shaligram aunty’s help.”

So they did go to Shaligram aunty. And they’ve now scheduled a formal tree plantation session for Saturday afternoon. And I’m proud of myself for having handled the situation positively, rather than my usual cynicism. There will be enough time for them to get acquainted with the cynicism when they grow up…

today was bt brinjal’s turn. i tuned in towards the fag end of the conversation between navin and rabad. (i think it was because navin wanted to show rabad’s latest knowledge off and was asking her questions loudly, but that’s only a digression)

navin – so rabad, tell me why do you think bt brinjal is a good idea?

rabad – huu? (buying time to answer the toughie)

rabad (in all innocence) – because ‘b’ is for boy and ‘t’ is for one of good friend’s name…

i controlled then but i’m letting go now….

HA HA HA HA HA HA HA…

- Mark Twain

These days, I am telling the kids stories of Shivaji, and I happened to be talking about the fact that Dadoji Konddev was Shivaji’s teacher, and how he taught Shivaji horse-riding, archery with a bow and arrow, fighting with a sword etc. And for effect, I asked Rabad, “Does your teacher teach you fighting?”

A little crestfallen, Rabad said, “No, they only teach A-B-C-D and things like that in my school.”

And after a little pause, she added, “But I learn fighting from watching Ben-10 on TV.”

so we have some 7 tubes running in and out of her. obviously the nurses didn’t want to take them on and off if she wanted to use the bathroom. so, they put on a diaper for her.

i wasn’t allowed to be with her all the time. the nurses would call me in every once in a while. in one such trip, a nurse tells me, "she just didn’t pee till we took her to the bathroom"

me – yeah, i can imagine that.

rabad called me to her with a broad smile – mamma, they told me that if i don’t pee in the diaper, they’ll give me an injection. right, as if they can do that…they were trying to fool me.

* * *

another one from the hospital. i was trying to comfort her telling her, that it was alright. since both abu and rabad love listening to their birth stories, i told them how i was hospitalized similarly when she was born.

me – see, i’m fine now.

rabad – mamma, i’ll have to come to hospital two times. one now and one when i have a baby

me giving her a high five – yes! just like me. i came to the hospital once for abu and once for you

rabad – oh, then i’ll have to come three times. one now and two for two babies…

yep! i should have seen that coming!!

rabad (in the sweetest of tones) – i don’t want you as mamma, i want a different mamma

me – ok

rabad – pappa too. i want a different pappa

me (feeling a tad better) – ok

rabad – and you know what i’d tell the different mamma and pappa?

me – what?

rabad – the same thing, that i want a different mamma and pappa

now, can anyone capture the essence of life better than that?

So now, apparently, they want more creative control. If you remember, the title of the last post was dictated by Abu. Now this whole post has gone up on the insistence of Abu.

“Pappa, this story is too funny. You have to put it up in Abu-Rabad site,” he told me a few days back. Partially because I was busy, and partially because I did not really think the story did belong on the site, I did nothing. So today, he asked me again, “Did you put up the story I told you on the Abu-Rabad site?”.

So, here is the story.

We had all gone to a hill station for a vacation with extended family. Abu and Rabad had gone with their cousins for a walk among the hills. n didi is one of the cousins. When they came back, Abu told me,

“Pappa, a funny thing happened. n didi went into the hills and found some shiny stones. After that, she saw a white thing. She thought that thing is a bag. When she picked it up, it was a diaper! Ha ha.” He is giggling even now as he repeats the story to me.

When Rabad found out about this, she insisted that she wanted to see the “white thing”. No amount of persuasion would dissuade her. She rested only after she had made her cousin go back into the hill, and find the diaper, and had said “Eeww.”

Now Abu wants me to print this so he can send it to his friend TQ. “Because he’ll laugh also.”

rabad (she’s sitting and hugging my feet while i stand)- mamma, i like you very much. i like you more than i like myself.

who said i wont be using this forum to brag?

but seriously, can’t believe the layers that that one sentence has. obviously, the brag. but then the fact that she likes herself quite a lot. and that she has enough confidence to say that out loud. 

then again, maybe i’m reading too much into this. damn, i need some confidence lessons from this 4-year old.

“Pappa, is winter over?”

“No baby. It is still winter, but for some reason it is hot today.”

“Oh. I want winter back. I like the cold”

Later, in the evening, unexpectedly it rained. The kids were playing downstairs, got wet in the rain, and had fun.

Today, Rabad asks me, “Pappa, is it rainy season?”

“No. It’s winter.”

“Then why did it rain?” she wanted to know.

“By mistake,” is what I could manage.

She thought about this for a while, and said:

“God is great, no? He decided to mix together rain and winter, so that we can enjoy both at the same time.”

I like her explanation better than mine…

me: of course, you have two…the other one is rabad, see…

rabad (in full form – curled brows, the hint of a tear in left eye, and all): i don’t like rabad…

me: well, i think it is sweet

rabad (letting go of all dignity, wailing away): you never give me what i like…

navin: ok, i have one for you – “bollywood” and abu can be “hollywood”

rabad (instantly reducing the decibel level of the room): huh?

me: don’t like that either? how about “melodrama” for you and “drama” for bhaiyya (older brother)?
(you cannot imagine the sinister, sadistic, and completely satisfied grin on my face)

rabad is puzzled.

me: see, you asked for two we gave you four!

aren’t we the bestest parents ever?

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.”