What's your Catch Phrase?

Dad and Younger Son (YS) are having a bed time chat.

YS, referring to his elder brother:  “What do you think is his catch phrase?”

Dad: “I don’t think he has one. I don’t think anyone in our house has a catch phrase or a pet phrase”

YS: “Every time he keeps telling me - How would you feel if your son did something like this? – I think that is his catch phrase”  

Dad: “That, he is just saying because you are always doing some or the other mischief and doing some hazardous, risky stuff, and he wants you to be safe and understand things from my perspective.”

YS: “But it is so annoying!”

Dad: “Maybe what you are doing is also annoying for him. You have to understand, be considerate and look at things from other’s perspective also na? ….. Anyways, do you have any catch phrase of yours?”

YS: “I don’t know. You tell. You are listening to me. You know”

Dad: “I don’t think you have any. Do you think I have any catch phrase?”

YS: “You don’t have any catch phrase, but you keep singing weird songs, and that is very annoying, especially when I am studying or doing my homework”

And just as he said that, dad ejects his usual periodic wind “ptttt prrr ptt ptt ptt prr ppttt ptt prrrr pttt …..” and a reeking stench engulfs the room.

YS jumps up and begins to run out of the bedroom screaming:  “Oh my God…….. What is this?”

Dad: “It is Diwali my son. I am just bursting some safe crackers.”

YS, as he is running out covering his nose “This is very annoying. You must have some decency” and further adds dad’s advice verbatim “You have to understand, be considerate and look at things from other’s perspective also na?”

Few minutes later when the stench has subsided, YS walks in and tells “Papa, you don’t have a catch phrase. You have a fart phrase”

Dad replies: “Like this?” and goes on again “ptttt prrr ptt ptt ptt prr ppttt ptt prrrr pttt …..”

YS screams  “Oh no! Again?” and runs out of the bedroom warning everybody of the hazard in the master bedroom.

Exams and all…

Those who know me well, or those who have read my blogs know that I have had an unusual kind of relationship with exams; some of you may term it as ‘complicated’. Now, for some time I was living in a state of bliss, believing that my trysts with exams are all over, and that’s what I thought, but now it has returned to haunt me in the form of my lads’ struggles.

As my boys struggle and break their head with their version of aliens, Miss. Manga Malayalam and Mr. Jhandu Hindi, I am dragged back into my very own fear zone. In many ways, I fear that I will end up becoming my own parents, or the parents of my close friends, whose acts I largely despised. Remember their acts of going to the terrace and turning the TV antennae in the wrong direction, so that we lost signal reception, or their act of hiding away the VCR, the audio cassette player and our Tinkles and Amar Chitra Kathas, and then telling our playtime friends in typical Malayalam accent “o nehi aa segtha … o pedh reha hai… thum jaao ….ooska exham hei”. This writing is just to tread past that fear by making it all sound comic and insignificant to myself.

Until last year, the exam pattern in CBSE schools was so very convenient. Kids had to just study the portions for a particular trimester and then forget all about it after the exams. Now the shitty guys in the Centre have gone back to that same archaic system that traumatized my generation, and it just gave me a shattering current of déjà vu down my spine, when wifey informed that the lads will have to study the whole book for their final exams! Set aside that shocker, she only added salt to the wound, when she said that, maybe Mr. Jhandu Hindi won’t go away after one finishes Secondary School, and that he will stay on to haunt the family through the kid’s Higher Secondary schooling. I am crestfallen; feel roasted, shaken, stirred, abused et al, some of which are unmentionable here.

As the only adult male in the house, I took it upon me as my moral responsibility to find a solution to this problem that has besieged it, and was also working towards making a robust counter attack plan,  but it so happens that I have been asked by the High Command ‘not to interfere’. More shaken, more stirred and more what not! But on second thoughts, I think she was right. What counter attack plan can you expect from a man who tutors his son about the ‘Desi Maals of Bhojpur’ when asked to teach ‘Decimal System of Mathematics’ or form the guy who until recently thought that the feminine gender of ‘Pea-cock’ is a ‘Pea-pussy’.

Yes, academics is not my forte, and beating the juggernaut of exams convincingly is not one at all. I can tell this with conviction recalling my many humiliating encounters with it in the past. My 1^st semester exams in Engineering gave me a whopping 6 back papers, the ordeal of back papers continued through until my 7^th semester, where at one point of time I was sitting proudly upon a pile of 14.

In many ways I have polished my skill in writing by scribbling fiction in my answer sheets. Sitting through exams for Science, Management and other such descriptive subjects were easier and pleasurable too, because it gave me a lot of scope and space to write. I have made some marvelous discoveries, inventions and written some profound, yet rib tickling and thrilling short stories in some of my Science and Management answer sheets, alas all of those papers are now lost. One incident that I can recall in particular is when I was doing my Masters in Ahmedabad. In my hostel, we were preparing for our Project Management Exam which was due next day, when my Brother-In-Law dropped in, and suggested me to join him at his place promising that he would drop me back the next day just in time for the exam. Now, since his newly wed wife had asked him to go and get her brother, he wouldn’t take ‘no’ for an answer, and on the other side, my friends and classmates advised me against it, and wanted me to stay back and prepare for the test. My BIL threw in his final bait, the ram-baan, or should I call it a Chapatti shaped Sudarshan Chakra. He said that my sister was making phulkas for me, and by God, let me tell you, no one makes better phulkas in this world than my sisters. I had to bite the bait, although my jealous roomies tried to hold me back, I left. Next day the exam went well. As usual I wrote all that I had learnt and filled the pages with the right Project Management theories, rationale, doctrines and what not. I was really happy with my work, and even went on to poke my jealous friends’ envy bones describing the soft fluffiness of the phulkas, and the feeling of bliss one experiences when one relishes those tender, succulent chicken pieces right from the warm rich, spicy, aromatic chicken curry that my sister had prepared and had my mom’s trademark seal all over it. My mouth still goes watery when I think about it, but let me tell you, on that day, when the answer sheets were distributed I watered not only from my eyes, but also all the unmentionable places in my body as my professor and classmates had a field day discussing my revolutionary Project Management ideas in the classroom. On that fateful day, my love affair with Miss Phulka died. Although I have remained a foodie, I haven’t looked back at that bread with fondness ever since.

  

My worst enemies were always Mathematics, Analysis or anything that had to do with complex engineering calculations. Most of the times, my Mathematics, Mechanics and Structural Analysis answer sheets returned with zeroes all over them. It is a fact that I have contributed more zeroes to Mathematics than the great Aryabhatta or Brahmagupta or Bhaskara or any other great mathematician that has walked the Indian soil, but whatever, I have never let those achievements corrupt my humility and humbleness. I think, and I believe that it is one of my greatest rewards and God’s appreciation of my great valor and fortitude that my lads are finding dealing with numbers and complex formulae a cakewalk. My wife however has the funny misconception that this is her lineage and tutorage. How silly of her!

Now, it is not that my very own tortuous affairs with exams ended with my college days, I did face some big exams after that and I must humbly inform that I did come out with flying colors out of them, although I know that my examiners must be now regretting their decision to pass me. J The first one was when I passed an unwritten test, and a silly girl finally agreed to marry me. Later, with a lot of help from my friends and colleagues, I did clear two online exams for professional accreditations. As of now, I am already due to take one more such accreditation exam, which I have already procrastinated for 4 years. Now hey, it is not that I am scared or anything, it is just that I want to give this test its due time. I am planning to take that exam by the end of this year, and when I do that, I am planning to take a week off from work and everything else, shut myself in the store room on the top floor, throw off my mobile phone, shut off the wifi in my house and ban friends and family from my life. You know drastic times require drastic measures.

But frankly, it is my opinion, that whoever you are and whatever your age or gender be, exams, its preparation and its results must not flutter or fluster you. It must not disrupt your normal life. It pains when I see these little lads and their parents going through all the stress, and it hurts when I see that they have to sacrifice their precious ipad, TV and play time, confined to a desk and a chair, behind a pile of books, with the only sight of a fuming, overzealous tutor of a parent in the front. This sight is really disheartening.

Life must go on as normal. We must play, we must engage in our routine sports, we must do our extracurricular stuff, we must party, and we must have our family gatherings, rituals and functions. These things must not stop or be discontinued or even take a break because of some routine exam. That reminds me, we are invited for two parties this weekend, and both are sure to have lots of exotic spicy Indian food, awesome company and both the invitations come with unwritten assurances that the night will be totally laced with ghee and glee. Of course, we won’t be able to make it; we will be busy confined to our desk and chair, hidden behind books, preparing for the exams.

The one about desi maal.

It is March again, and only my God and the walls of my house know how much my household hates the first two weeks of this month. This is the time when schools conduct final exams for the year. The lads hate it because their iPad time is squeezed from hours to minutes and their playtime is shortened to the least possible. Mommy hates it because she is juggling hard between fulfilling the needs of her three boys, tutoring/preparing the two lads for their exams, and ensuring that I am nowhere near the lads’ study table. I hate it because I am banished from the living room and also because this period is an anniversary and a grim reminder of a silly event from the past.

This happened last year, that is, when my elder one was in 5^th grade. By this time my situation was not as worse as it is now. Until February last year, I was allowed to tutor math to my younger lad, that is additions and subtractions only, but not multiplication or anything to do with English grammar; and also allowed to assist my wife in tutoring the elder one on ad hoc basis, on easy subjects especially when she had any important or unavoidable task in the kitchen or bathroom to attend to. Albeit part time, both I and my kids took great pride in it, because they still believed that I was intrinsically intelligent and knowledgeable as I had graduated in Civil Engineering from a prestigious Engineering College (their grandmother kept telling them that) and I was working on a large city development project (I kept telling them that). That was it! Then came March.

It was one of those hateful days in the beginning of March, it was final exam time, and I had just walked in home form another hectic workday of crushing candies, watching raunchy Bhojpuri videos and pampering my boss’s ass. You never know how time flies when your eyes are stuck on a Bhojpuri bhabhiji’s hip gyrations and your ears are lost in decoding the double meanings in her song. Needless to say, by the time I regained my senses and decided to drive back home, all my colleagues had already left and the office lights were switched off. It was pitch dark, and with great difficulty I managed to locate what I believe was the washroom door next to my boss’s cabin and peed into the first thing that felt and smelt like a urinal. Anyways what I intent to say is that I was late, pretty late, and that it was a tad bit later than what the definition of late actually is.

That day as I entered home, I saw a disaster struck Mommy with volcanic fumes and what not ejecting out of her ears, teaching math to an almost sleepy kid, who appeared equally disaster struck and holding back a tsunami, waiting to break free from his eyes. The younger one though had fallen asleep on the recliner.

I took a few steps in and my lad jumped off form his chair and ran towards me, hugged me and asked how my day was. I replied back saying “Very hectic son, very hectic and busy. I am so tired”. Mommy, the tutor looked up at me without lifting her head, with the sightline above her glasses, her eyes filled with aggravation, as if accusing me of coming home early and causing disruption to the kids studies. It is only when I enquired “What’s for dinner?” that she realized that it was already past 8:30PM. She got up and ran into the kitchen begging “Half an hour just give me half an hour”. I somehow dragged myself to the master bedroom to freshen up and change as my son zipped past me into his bedroom and in no time started to play on his Xbox.

Although I was home, I was not quite done with watching my favorite videos, as those holi and choli numbers kept lingering in my brain. I quickly changed into my nightwear and switched on my laptop, plugged in my headphones and got lost in my Bhojpuri world.  Never realized when I got into the groove, and posited myself into an imaginary hammock. I placed my feet on the computer table and slouched myself in to the chair with my head resting back lazily in the cup of my arms. Swinging in my imaginary hammock I hummed ‘maal desi maal desi maal desi maal’ with my eyes closed. Never realized that someone opened the door of my bedroom and entered in. Never realized that, that someone was my 10-year-old son. My trance was broken only when I felt his little warm hand on my shoulder. I jumped off the chair, scampered for the controls, couldn’t locate them, and in the process ended up dropping the mouse and breaking it. Nevertheless, I somehow managed to shut off YouTube and stand straight in front of my son and ask him sternly “What are you doing here, don’t you have anything to study?”

He said “I want you to explain me this desi maal thing”

“What?” I screamed back in a hush voice with my eyes almost popped out and shock written all over my face.

“I won’t explain anything to you. Go back and study” I said

He screamed “Amma, look this papa is …….”

I stopped him midway “No beta no. Don’t tell Amma. I will tell you everything. All that you want to know about desi maal” and I took a deep breath and began.

I started with explaining him that desi meant anything that is local and therefore anything Indian for Indians was desi, and that maal meant merchandize or product. So the term desi maal actually only meant any product that was Indian. He didn’t seem convinced with that answer. He seemed rather lost with that explanation and stared at me like I had gone crazy or what.

I always knew that my lad is smart kid, and so I couldn’t trick him with a placebo, and so I started explaining about the real stuff. I started with explaining him about UP, Bihar, Nepal Border, the language Bhojpuri, taught him a few Bhojpuri phrases and reached to the festival of holi, ched-chad, Devar-Bhabhi relationship, Mahua TV, traditional Bhojpuri numbers remixed into bollywood item numbers etc etc. I even sang to him two lines from my own Bhojpuri compilation:

Hamar padosan chamiya badi hott lage loo

Desi gori choriya, Europan lage loo

Chamiya ka jobanwa, atom bomb laage loo

Dilwa kare dhak dhak, humka shock lage loo

The explanation must have lasted for some 45 odd minutes, at the end of which I was feeling great and accomplished. For the first time in my life I felt that I had actually transferred important knowledge to my progeny. It was a masterstroke, and my chest bulged with pride. Pride, that I had actually explained something as complicated as this to this gulf-bred kid. But the gulf-bred kid seemed more lost altogether. He looked back at me with blank eyes, as if I have been talking to him in gibberish or some alien language and showed absolutely no sense of gratitude for the immense knowledge sharing that had just taken place.

It was exactly at that point that mommy called out saying that my dinner was ready, and this lad grabbed the first moment of my distraction, sneaked out, and ran away. I thought he ran away to play his Xbox, but he actually ran down to his Amma.

I stood there thumping my chest, brimming with pride and oozing self-love.

My self-admiration vanished as I opened my eyes and turned myself to walk down to the dining table for having dinner. Mommy stood there with disgust and disdain written all over her face and spewing dragon like fumes from her nostrils. One sight, and I shuddered with fear. I looked for a leeway, but she had already cornered me.

She screamed “What is this? You can’t do even one thing properly? That kid has his math finals day after tomorrow, and all I wanted you to do was help him revise the chapter on decimal system. You couldn’t even do that much? And what rubbish have you been talking to that little 10-year-old kid? How irresponsible and immature can you be man?”

That was it.

:-(

A lesson for Bhai.

Conversations between a dad and son

Friday, 12 June 2015

Background: Yesterday we had been to a late night party where I drank and had to be driven back. This one happened when I was driving Yo to the kids Saloon for his usual haircut.   

Yo: "Papa, I think it was such a good idea, what we did yesterday."

Papa: "What?"

Yo: "Remember, we went for the party yesterday, and you had kalla and Amma drove us back. It was so good, because we all reached home safely and we didn't kill anyone on the way."

Papa: "Ya right"

Yo: "I think, it would have been nice if only Salman Khan had made his wife drive the car"

Papa: "Ya, but he is not married.... What to do?"

Yo: "That is the problem. I think Salman Khan should get married. Then he will not do any bad things anymore"

Papa: "I agree. That is such a good idea" (Why should Salman Khan alone keep having all the fun? He too should suffer marriage.)

A lesson on India…

Last Wednesday I had just returned from work and as it is when I am usually at home, had nothing much to do. On a normal day, I would just switch on the TV and laze while watching some of the theatrics on one of those Indian news channels. However, on that day, the High Command in our house had banned TV, so I was all the more useless. I had also pissed off most of my friends on my various chat lines and, was out of lives on Candy Crush, so actually I was totally out of any pastime activity too.

My High Command was tutoring the elder son, who was preparing for the last test of his year-end term for the 4^th grade. The subject was EVS, and the scope covered all of India’s States and Union Territories and covered a myriad of data that included, but was not limited to their Capitals, Key Ministers, Important Places, Monuments, Heritage Structures, Temples, Hills, Valleys, Lakes, Rivers, Seas, Deserts, Ports, People, Languages, Food, Dresses, Art and Dance forms, Occupation, Agriculture, Weather and whatnots.

Too vast a syllabus for an exam that had an overall worth of only 15 marks and test duration of maximum an hour, I must say. Nevertheless, all of it had to be crammed into that tiny brain, and so, mom had imposed a ban on any kind of distraction in the living room, which came in the form of banishing the younger lad out of vicinity, a ban on television and a stern diktat on me to stay away from the study area. Therefore, I sat a distance away with a sort of fake disinterested look on my face, but could not help not listening in.

Both of them had individual halos hovering over their heads. The one over mom looked more like steam ejecting out of a locomotive and read, ‘Under High Pressure’, the face though was motely painted with streaks of a variety of emotions, despair, anger, agony and joy. Are all Indian mothers just like this?  The one over the lad was simple; it said ’This one last exam, then I get two weeks off…. Hurray!’, his face though had only one word written on it ‘Lost!’

Sitting there and prying over them as they struggled with memorizing what crops grow in Assam,  what language they speak in each state and which river flows from where to where, I thought, since I fare pretty well with those KBC questions and since I have all the wealth of information gained from watching so much news on TV channels, I might as well amuse myself by having my own parallel ‘Are you smarter than a 4^th grader’ game.

I failed miserably. Yes I did.

Although I lost miserably, I learnt a lot that evening. In fact, more than what I would have after watching an hour or so of that animated and staged TV debate on Indian politics.

 

Did you know ….. that the southernmost tip of India is not the Vivekanada Rock, but a place called Indira Point in the Nicobar Islands? That the largest producer of milk in India is Uttar Pradesh and not Gujarat? That the largest port in India is at Kandla and not the Nahva Sheva in Mumbai? That the largest lake in India is the Wullar Lake in Kashmir, and all your life you thought that it is some lake in Rajasthan? That the capital of Assam is not Guwahati, but Dispur? That currently there are 28 states in India, and Delhi of which Arvind Kejriwal was the last Chief Minister, is not even a State? Such an overload of information, I must say!

Well, talking about the exam, Kevin did well. He lost just one mark, that too, because of his silly answer ‘Polar Bear’ as the capital of Andaman and Nicobar Islands. Talk about cramming; we guys had a nice laugh! Especially trying to figure out how Port Blair ended up as Polar Bear?

Now, whether you and I know or not, my wife does, and so does my nine year old lad. And so, I for one have decided that I will not contest with either of them when it comes to trivia about India. I shall therefore limit my general knowledge show off to the area of Indian Politics, which thankfully is still ever ambiguous and bluff worthy.

Thanks for reading, and as we part, one triva question for you. There are only two Indian states that have a literacy rate of over 90%. One is Kerala, which is the Second? If you know, write the answer in the comments box. And yes, no googling please.

Kevin’s School Bus.

After a few unattended calls to the School Bus driver, Kevin’s mother assumed that possibly, the bus met with an accident or had breakdown and so decided to drive him to his school.

She drops him at the gate, and before leaving finds out why the bus did not come today.

As she leaves the Admin Office, a visibly shocked Kevin runs out of his class crying and frantically running to the building exit. His mother intercepts him at the lobby and this is what he had to say "Amma, I forgot to tell you. I don't have school today"

Kevin’s First Book

We shifted to a new house on 30^th November this year and two days past the shifting with no sort of entertainment what so ever (we were yet to fix the TV and didn’t have any internet connection too), Kevin took up to write a book. He tore a page from my office pad and produced his first book, which also is a one page book with the cover on one side and the story on the other.

 

The book is called 'Old He-Man's Family' and purchase requests of the same, including memorabilia can be made on the fake website www.He-mans'sallworld.com

Enjoy reading.

 

The Cover

 



The Book

Maladies of a Toddler’s Dad.

At the end of this year’s keyobering season the little rascal in our house will cross a major milestone. This year, he will move out of toddlerhood and enter into his fourth year. The last two years were great for him.

This year, he started attending playschool and has started humming some rhymes and also the Indian National Anthem. Toddlerhood also saw him accomplish many feats (read peccadilloes), most of which ended up with plucking my nerves. Although most of his activities ended with me having to take a sizeable fiscal hit, I thoroughly enjoyed having a toddler at home. He continued to entertain us with his antics and was especially successful in positing a smile on my face and help release me off other worldly tensions.

Some of his most unforgettable achievements were:

Killing a laptop.

He managed to soak my laptop with milk and then pluck out all its keys. Sometime early this year our laptop was put in the ICU, but even the best Service Agent in Qatar could not save its soul from departing.

I eventually got home a PC, which he has been using well. He has learnt how to use a mouse and is now a frequent visitor to www.starfall.com

Convert the house into a 24x7 Art Gallery

He is the artist in our house, and has covered all the walls with his complex modern art. Few weeks back we were compelled to repaint our house, but to save his art, we have limited the repainting to just the living and dining rooms. The exhibition is still running live in the kids room.

Convert the sofa into a snow machine, and its cushions into a vault

He converted the sofa cushions into a safe vault for storing all his precious toys away from his elder brother. Now I know why they show raiding Income Tax officials ripping off sofas in those bollywood movies!

Last week we got the sofa upholstery redone. I pray and hope he doesn’t rip off the cushions again this December, to make snow for the Xmas tree.

Teach Dad some carpentry.

He managed to get locked in the Master Bedroom twice. Through my efforts to rescue him I eventually ended up learning how to pick a door latch. Since those events, as a precaution, I have removed all the latches and none of our rooms (except the bathrooms) could be locked.

Two days back he managed to get himself locked in the Guest Toilet. Now even the toilets in our house don’t have a latch!

We now have a new rule in the house ‘Sing loudly while using the toilet to avoid unwanted intruders/embarrassment’. Well, knowing my boys, I know they are eagerly waiting for someone to sing, so that they can check out.

Can I tell you a story? 2/2

Part 2 – Yohan’s Story

“There was a little boy, who lived in the countryside, very far, far away from the city” I started.

He interrupted asking “What is the name of that boy?”

“You suggest” I replied back, to which he asked back “Is he a good boy or a bad boy?”

I thought for moment and said “He is a good boy”, to which he instantly replied back “Then let his name be Kevin”

I thought again for a second and said “Actually he is a bad boy, but….ehh…..” to which, before I could finish, he interrupted with the same vigour and suggested “Then let his name be Yohan” (Yohan, according to him is the baddest, meanest and most notorious boy on earth!)

I resumed with my story telling “This boy lived in a nice single house with a sloping roof and a chimney on top and around his house was a lawn, green like a beautiful carpet, decorated with small shrubs bearing beautiful flowers and there were trees, which had big juicy mangoes and apples on it. Behind his house was a big barn, in which live cows and sheep and goats and pigs and all such wonderful animals and also a poultry house with hens and turkeys and ducks. Nearby his house was a beautiful little lake, where he and his father would usually go out for fishing”

“This boy lives in a farm house, no Papa?” He interrupted again.

I said “Yes” and continued “This boy was a very naughty boy. Every day, early in the morning he would go to the barn with his sister to get milk from the cow and while his sister milked them, he would hurt the cows by twisting their tail and kicking them on their legs and punching them on their body. It hurt the cows, but since the boy was a small little cute boy, they did not kick back”

“He is just like Yohan no Papa?” He interrupted again.

I replied “Sort of, but Yohan is not a bad boy. He doesn’t hurt animals. He is kind to animals. Didn’t you see how he was playing with that cat the other day?”

He didn’t buy my argument. He was in no mood for that. He just replied back “Okay, then?”

I continued with the story “He would do the same with the sheep, hurt them by hitting them with his stick, when he’d go around with his dad to graze them, and not only that, he’d pluck the flowers and throw them on the ground and then on those poor trees he’d draw with his stick and punch nails. He would even hurt the poultry, by throwing stones and water at them. The animals were all sad. Even the fishes were sad. He would put all the garbage into the lake and that hurt the fishes”

He interrupted and added his expert comments “You know Papa, animals and plants are not manmade. They are natural. They are made by God. And so they have life and feelings. Teacher told that we should not hurt them. It is not a machine. A computer is a machine. Even toys are machines. If we can break them, it is okay, they will not feel hurt”

I was about to begin with my lecture on how to maintain toys, when he added “Then Papa, what happened?”

And so I continued “This went on for many days, and all the animals and birds and plants were all sad. But this little bad boy kept hurting them”

He interrupted again “This Yohan is a bad boy only no Papa?”

“Okay” I said and continued “Then one night, when the boy and his parents were asleep, all these barn animals and fowl and plants gathered in the lawn. They decided that they would not take this behaviour from that boy anymore. They were angry, very angry and there they decided to go on a strike”

He interrupted and enquired “What is a strike Papa?”

For a moment I thought, “If only we were living in Kerala, that would have been a very silly question!” but anyways, explained to him what a strike was. I am not sure if he understood or not. He was more interested in listening to the story and so said “Then Papa, what happened?”

I continued “The next day, when his sister went to milk the cows, there was no milk coming. She tried and tried, but no milk at all. Then she went to the goats and the sheep. They also stopped giving milk. The sheep stopped growing hair, and there was no wool for them to make sweaters for the winter. The fowl stopped giving eggs. The plants stopped flowering and the trees? There were no fruits on the trees either. Even the sky stopped raining and there was no water. The lake dried and the fishes went deep inside under the ground and then from there into another lake, far away”

As I said all this, I observed that Kevin was getting concerned. His face was turning pale and his otherwise cheerful smiley face was turning into a sad smiley.

I added “Yohan and his family had nothing to eat or drink. Everyday this little boy would ask his sister and mother for food, but there was no food in the house. They didn’t have any water either to drink or bathe. The beautiful farmhouse turned into a desert. They became weak and shabby; they couldn’t walk or even get up and stand on their feet. Since they didn’t have any energy they could not maintain their house, and slowly their house started crumbling and falling down. They no more had a safe haven to protect themselves from the summer heat and the cold chilly winter. They didn’t have any warm clothes for the winter too. All the plants and animals died one by one”

I took a break and turned my head to Kevin, to see what his reaction was. He was stunned. His eyes were watery and they were looking through the walls, focussed into another world outside that bedroom. Although we were in a cosy air conditioned bedroom, I could see little droplets of perspiration emanating on his forehead. He was still, like he was actually in a desert experiencing/observing the peril, taking place right in front of his eyes.

In a faint broken voice he asked “Then?”

I continued “Then, one day that little boy Yohan prayed to God, and asked God for forgiveness. A beautiful fairy appeared. She had a magic wand in her hand. She pointed up above the sky and she said….”

And before I could finish, my lad jumped and screamed “Abra ka dabra…. Yeyyyyy” with a big happy smile on his face and an unstoppable bout of laughter. He was happy, extremely happy.

I added. “Everything was back as normal. From then onwards, the farm boy was a good boy, he took good care of all the animals and fowl and also the plants and trees. He kept his house clean and neat and even the fish came back and they would joyfully swim with him. They all were his friends now”

“Is that the end?” He asked, to which I replied “Yes”

He had his final comments “You know Papa, Yohan is a good boy. He is my brother. I love him” And as he said those little words, his eyes were moist and his hands clasped mine tight thankfully, as if I had just saved his little brother from a big calamity and as if he was thanking me in return.

He added further “Your story is beautiful Papa. It was very nice. I liked it. But my story was a powerful story. It had fighting and attacking and aliens. But your story was also good”

I was looking into his little eyes and beginning to get mesmerised by his pure innocence, when he interrupted “What is the moral of your story Papa?”

I said “The moral of this story is that we must take care of our nature and all the beings in it”

He replied “Like we should not hurt other living beings also no?”

“Yes, exactly”, I jumped in, and reminded him “Like if Papa wants to watch cricket, you should not force Papa to put cartoon, or when Papa is sleeping, you should not jump on Papa and try to wake Papa up. That is also hurting. Okay? That’s also not good manners”

Sensing his chance, he retorted “If I want to watch TV, can I go now?”

“Smart boy” I said in my mind, but told him “No! This is sleeping time. You got to sleep now”

I sensed that he was now brimming with love and affection for his little brother. With a humble and innocent look on his face, he pleaded “I want to go to Yohan, Papa”.

That did the trick, and I let him go.

I no time he jumped off the bed and headed to the living room. I lied down there, brimming with pride and my chest fully blown. I was content. I had just told a story to my seven year old lad, which made him realize how much he loved his little brother.

From the bedroom I could sense that Kevin was now trying to give hugs and kisses to his little brother, to which Yohan retorted back screaming “Go go go! Nooooo!” and “Amma, Chetan pushing pushing Amma”

In no time they were back to normal; fighting, screaming at each other, shouting “Attack Attack”. Kevin was back to his normal self, screaming in return “Yohan, you are a bad boy”

Aahhh! Boys!!

Can I tell you a story? 1/2

Part 1 – Kevin’s Story

Yesterday evening my friends from across the globe forced me to end our three and a half hour long skype call, recommending me to go and doze off, reminding that I had to attend work the next day. I am sure they did that just because they wanted me to go away and let them free for their much awaited weekend siesta.

Since I had woken up only past noon that day and since I had already exceeded my quota of snoozing for the week, I was taken wide eyed and awake. After I had failed to induce sleep by forcing myself through all my known means, finally to kill time, I logged on to blogger and posted one of my first works in Malayalam, yet I was still undone.

Back in the Master Bedroom (Where I am otherwise banned entry), I lied down still, breathing heavily and staring into the Cimmerian emptiness of the room with my wide open eyes. This exercise transported me away, not to Slumberland, but back in time, some two weeks ago and just a couple of days before my wife and kids left for India.

I lied down straight on my back and on my right laid my seven year old lad Kevin, sideways facing me and resting his head on to my biceps. His right leg and arm over my tummy and chest respectively.

He asked “Papa, are you feeling sleepy?”

I replied “Yes. It is already two thirty in the night”.

That night we were busy packing our carton full of gifts and souvenirs for our many friends and relatives in India.

“But I am not sleepy Papa” he came back.

“Kevin, it is already five o’ clock in India right now. If you don’t sleep in time, you’ll be all the time sleepy sleepy when you are in Thrissur and will not be able to go and play with your friends at all. Do you want it to be like that?” I asked back.

“No papa” He answered, and further enquired ”Do I have school tomorrow?”

“No you don’t. But I have to go to office, and I am tired so lets just go to sleep” I replied and I closed my eyes.

“I am not sleepy Papa. Can I go and watch TV? Yohan is watching TV” (Yohan is his three year old brother)

“No” I said with my eyes closed and added “Yohan was sleeping since evening. He just woke up now”

“Then Papa, can you tell me a story?”

“Kevin, I am so tired…. No story telling… please” I said in a tired tone and added “Just close your eyes and sleep. Remember how Special agent OSO helped that girl sleep today. Just close your eyes, take a deep breath and slowly you’ll fall asleep. Try that”

Listening to my latest advice, he went into that attention mode, lying on his back with his arms straight on his sides and started breathing heavily with his eyes closed, as if he were meditating.

A moment later he recoiled back to his original position and said “I am not sleepy. Can I tell you a story, Papa?”

I said “Okay” and thus began his story telling. Knowing Kevin very well, I knew what to expect, but this one was a bit different. The experience was akin to being caught in the eye of a tornado.

He started “There is a boy. He has special powers. His name is Ben Tennyson. And he has a sister. Her name is Gwen and his friend’s name is Kevin Levin. Kevin Levin has a green colour car. That is a super car, like a super super car. It can shoot and go fast like zoooo zooo zooo” as he said this, his arms and legs fidgeted rapidly over my body almost crushing my balls and breaking my bones. Little did I know that this was just the tip of the iceberg? The big hitting was yet to come.

He continued “You know Vilgax. He is the biggest enemy of Ben10 and he captured Gwen and Kevin Levin and put them in prison. And you know he wants the omnitrix so he wants to catch Ben10 and kill him and be most powerful. But Ben10 has the omnitrix and he can become aliens and attack him. And they fight” With that I started receiving blows from all the sides.

He continued with blows, and kicks. I just lied there still, with my eyes closed and my hand protecting my cullions, lest they’d break like walnuts under a hammer

“Doo ddaaa doom dahshh ….omnitrix…. fight … attack …. Boom disshhh …. Humungasaur ….. smash….. spider monkey…. Bhoom dash  dooo daa doo diiiii …. Echo echo …. Kooooo…. Attack attack…. Doodda dooda doom doom…..and then Vilgax falls into the fire and they come back to earth and they meet grandpa”

I knew that the story had just ended, but I had no clue of what happened to me or how the climax went about. I did feel a few blows amidst all that din and yelling.  It was like I had gone for a massage and the guy at the parlour put me into a washing machine drum and rolled me till I was all mixed up and vibrated. My head was still resonating like tongs and everything around was blurred for a few seconds even after he had finished the final act of the story.  I had lost my sleep.

He finally told “That was the end” and asked “How’s my story?”

I just replied back “I was good” with a silent “Aaahhhh” and “ouch, it hurt”

“Do you know what is the moral of this story?” Kevin asked.

I didn’t want to get into the complications and so just replied to him “You tell?”

“Ben10 always saves the day. Good guys always win. Bad guys always lose” he concluded and asked me “Can you tell me a story, Papa?”

I thought, ’this was my chance to give back a little piece of advice to this lad’ and so I started.