The daily vagaries

A cool evening breeze greets us as we step out toward the car. We are heading to a nearby park with little Aaryan, who at four years old considers swings, slides, and meeting new children among life’s greatest joys. “Dinosaurs, here I come!” he shouts dramatically while bouncing on the car seat. Somewhere along the way, in all the excitement, I take a wrong turn and lose track of the route. I stop by the roadside and ask a man on a bicycle for directions. He replies in cheerful Marathi-laced Hindi: “सीधे जाओ, फिर लेफ्ट मारो। थोड़ा आगे जाओ, फिर राईट मारो।” I thank him and begin to start the car when suddenly a voice from the back seat calls out: “Wait, Uncle… सुनो ना!” Confused, I turn around and see Aaryan enthusiastically waving the man back toward the car window. The cyclist comes closer, slightly puzzled. Aaryan immediately slaps his own left cheek and says, “यह लो… लेफ्ट मारा!” Then he slaps the other cheek. “यह लो… राईट मारा!” He pauses seriously before asking: “अब ...

- As written by lovely mom  One morning, my little son suddenly announced that he wanted to come to office with me. I was surprised. He rarely went anywhere without his Baba. But children who have not yet entered the world of schools and routines live by instincts of their own. Aashish looked slightly nervous too. “Never been to school, and Sahib is going to office already,” he joked. Aaryan grinned and replied, “तुम थोड़ा sad हो लेना बाबा। मैं शाम तक ही आऊँगा।” The ride to office passed cheerfully, with endless chatter from the seat beside me. Walking down the corridor, he looked around curiously before settling into my chair near the window. “तुम काम कर लो मैया,” he said. “I am waiting for Baba.” I handed him a few markers and pointed him toward the whiteboard. To my surprise, he sat there quietly drawing for nearly half an hour — something I had rarely seen him do at home. After some time he looked around and asked, “क्या ऑफिस ऐसा ही होता है मैया?” “Do you like it?” ...

It is lovely watching Aaryan play cricket with the neighborhood children — little hands gripping little bats, every swing full of effort, energy, and complete seriousness. Naturally, everyone wants to bat first. After a few rounds of arguments and negotiations, the game somehow settles into order. Someone bats, someone fields, someone complains, someone storms away and returns thirty seconds later. Then suddenly another quarrel begins. “I am big!” “No, I am bigger!” “मैं सबसे बड़ा हूँ!” A few of them even begin standing on their toes, comparing heights anxiously as though the matter carries enormous importance. I can see Aaryan growing upset, almost on the verge of tears. And then, quite unexpectedly, he pauses and begins reciting: बड़ा हुआ तो क्या हुआ, जैसे पेड़ खजूर पंथी को छाया नहीं, फल लागे अति दूर For a moment the argument dissolves into silence. Then the game resumes as though nothing important has happened. But I remain quietly absorbed in the moment. Over the p...

Another quiet day comes to an end. We lie together on the bed, a little tired after the evening walk, though Aaryan seems fully awake again. Some nights he falls asleep quickly on the way back home. Other nights, sleep disappears the moment we enter the house and he returns to being a bundle of restless energy. Tonight is one of those nights. He jumps from one side of the bed to the other, climbs over us, tickles us, escapes our grasp, and returns laughing again moments later. Outside, the moon hangs bright in the night sky. Through the balcony curtains we can see a few scattered stars, steady and quiet above the sleeping city. Eventually he settles beside me and asks for a story. But not a new one. He wants the same story he has demanded every night for the past week — the story of how I hurt my chin as a child. For reasons known only to him, stories involving injuries, bandages, and dramatic suffering seem endlessly fascinating. “Should I tell you the one about getting lost ...