The Brat strikes back

Relationships have to evolve to stay alive. When I look back on our courtship it was the OA pursuing and me playing the Princess. Today I fuss over him, settling his collar, planning a meal he enjoys and he soaks it up, as though it is his right. And it is, isn’t it? Anyhow, this post is not about us, it’s about the babies.

Their bond is changing from ideal, fairytale-like, into a real flesh and blood one. The Brat for all his peace-loving ways, is, like any brother, very aware of which buttons to press to irritate his sister. I could be sitting there seeing nothing and the Bean will turn purple and scream, ‘He’s irritating me. There. Right there. That thing he’s doing, blinking his eyes/twirling that piece of paper/breathing – there, he knows it irritates me and he’s doing it.’ And I’ll look back and forth, goldfish-like  and wonder what just happened.

At times he won’t ‘allow’ her to use a word by simply saying, ‘You can’t say ‘red’, it’s my word.’ And the Bean will explode, screaming, crying, yelling. And I’ll take a deep breath and try and deal with it diplomatically.

At other times though, it won’t end that well and the Bean will hit him. Or kick him. If I’ve told her once, I’ve told her a hundred times that she’s not to be so free with her hands and legs, but she’s not one to take kindly to instruction. And when that happens the Brat looks at her with eyes full of sadness and a pain that rips through my heart. And he walks away. All while I’m screaming at her for hitting, asking him why he had to irritate her and generally wondering if it might not be less painful to put my head through a cement mixer.

I’ve raised him telling him to use his words instead of his hands and I can’t tell you how often I wonder if I did the right thing. I’ve also taught him that a gentleman never raises his hand on a woman. And he’s maintained that, never hitting his sister back in retaliation.

In the recent past though, they’ve begun to draw their lines, demarcate their space and struggle over turf. It’s been maddening, enlightening and crazy. And healthy for them too, I guess as they learn where one of them ends and the other begins.

Today I was on the phone and the Bean came sobbing to me, heartbroken. ‘Brat doesn’t love me anymore, he hates me, he doesn’t want to be my brother…’ Typical girl. No mention of the incident that triggered it, go straight for the emotional angle. I cuddled her, kissed her hair, assured her that her brother loved her and carried her to him.

And asked him why she was crying. He shrugged and held out his arm. Teeth marks. She’d bitten him and in sheer terror run to me, knowing that she’d really crossed a line.

I dropped her, washed his hand, put an antiseptic cream and cuddled him. All the while horrified, wondering how to deal with this. What do you do when one child of yours hurts the other so badly? Do you take sides? Do you do what you’d have done if neither was your child and you had to play judge?

I then took a call and asked her if she was a puppy dog, because humans don’t bite. There was not much else to be done because she was already shaking with regret and fear at what she’d done and finally she took herself off to the nursery to calm herself down.

Rocking the Brat I talked to him, asked him if his arm felt better and how he felt. And why he hadn’t reacted. At this point he looked up at me nervously and confessed,’ I hit her when she bit me because it hurt so badly.’

At this point readers, I wanted to fall to my knees and praise the Lord. I wish I could say I was torn, but I wasn’t. I nodded. Hitting his sister was not on, I pointed out, but letting himself be bullied was even more harmful. Next time, I pointed out, maybe you can just hold her away. ‘I held her hands, he said, which is why she bent down and bit my wrist so hard.’

I let it go.

Family politics and equations are created so early. The Bean is a very intelligent child who has for a long time, got away with hitting or kicking her brother because he won’t fight back. No doubt she is scolded and checked and punished by us, but she has him pegged for a pushover and she makes the most of it.

The Brat has a long fuse though and it’s taken him his time. And so the first time he hit back she broke down and sobbed like her heart was broken. I let her sob and suffer for a while. I won’t be around to protect him for life and I certainly don’t want the Bean to grow up believing that the mild are weak.

Dinner, baths, bedtime happened and the Bean was subdued after her father too got back from work and gave her a good talking to. An hour after lights out I stopped in to check on them and found her lying awake in bed. I climbed in next to her and we chatted for a while. She had thought about it for a long time and knew she was wrong. ‘Next time I’ll think of another way to tell him I’m angry. I don’t want to not have a brother,’ she said.

It’s not the end of the matter. I have a feeling it’s just the beginning. And next time it may not be so easily dealt with.

Friend of Tibet

Sowmya Rajendran’s The Snow King’s Daughter is a favourite with both my kids.  Those of you who haven’t read the book can read the review on Saffron Tree (linked in the first line) and see if you’d like a copy.

We read it often and we’ve marked Tibet out on the huge map in the nursery and we often talk occupation and refugees and what not. Not in a political way, but in a simple easy-for-a-four-year-old to understand way.

A few days ago the Bean was at the dining table eating her dinner when she looked up and said, “We really need to tell the Chinese to stop being mean. They have to free Corbett.”

And then she was most annoyed when the OA and I fell off our chairs laughing at her. The OA wanted to correct her but I kicked him under the table so he shut up albeit unhappily. I just wanted to enjoy her babyness for a while more. She later remembered that it was Tibet and has corrected herself.

I’d put up the blooper on Facebook and a friend asked me how she’d heard of the Tibet issue and why such a young child knew anything about it at all. I think you’d need to read the book to realise that there are simple ways to talk to our kids about racism, injustice and other sensitive topics.

As for her age, I often wonder why we talk to kids about religion, God, teach them prayers and what not, when they’re too young to truly understand and make choices. After all most of us continue to practice the religion we were brought up in, justifying its failings and accepting every word of it as true, simply because it was fed to us so young. And it’s perhaps one of the most contentious and complex issues on earth, with saints and learned people struggling to put their thoughts in order. And yet we don’t think twice before feeding it to our kids.

Since I’m rather clearly not getting on to the religion train with both feet, I’d rather give them other things to believe in. I’d imagine its a lot easier to read up on environment, science, history and politics and find your beliefs. Things that to my mind are indisputable and leave no scope for confusion or double talk. It’s why they go to bed after ensuring that the taps are not leaking and lights are off, more religiously than bed time prayers.

It’s also why we marched around the dining table after we’d found Tibet on the map, all three of us shouting, ‘Free Tibet’. And I know I’d rather they believe in this and hopefully someday do something real for the cause than have any other beliefs that justify the bringing down of a mosque, the killing of a missionary and his young children, the defiling of a temple or the chopping of a tree.

Before we had the kids people often asked us what beliefs we’d bring them up with. I guess I have an answer now.

By the by, I am madly tripping on this song, this week.

The little cream dress

When I look back on the way I brought up the Bean I am not surprised at the way she’s turned out. Barely 4 days old she was plonked, in her car seat on the table of a car dealership. I sat there and did a dharna because they were not delivering our car. Old readers will remember the post I did with a picture of me stepping out of our new car, holding the barely week old baby.

They were giving the OA the runaround and he, gentleman that he is, was taking it on the chin. I lost my temper, checked out of hospital and limped there, sat down and waited. They were fine until it was the Bean’s feeding time. No doubt I covered up with a dupatta, but it sent them scurrying. It’s amazing how the sight of a nursing child strikes terror in the heart of louses. Anyway, we got our car and that was the first time the Bean was part of a political process. A few days later we wanted to take the Brat for a metro ride so the one month old Bean was slung back on my chest and off we went, getting down in Chandni Chowk for parathas.

But the one that really shocks most people is that we attended a huge global mela at the DND. Noida was a long way off from our house in Delhi but I wanted to go. I’m glad I did, because its been 5 years and the mela never returned. The Bean was about 16 days or so old and I took her in a Maya Wrap. We walked for hours which was a stupid thing, considering I was recovering from a cesarean, the OA carrying the 22 month old Brat. I look back on the trip and I can’t remember having any problems except not finding a bench or chair to sit down to nurse her.

There were stalls from Thailand, Nigeria, Egypt and Dubai, among others. And everyone asked me what the bag hanging around my neck was. I opened it a bit and let them peek in at the tiny baby curled up and saw horror writ large on their faces. Go home, they said, go home and rest. I smiled and walked on. I felt young and invincible and complete. I’d waited so long for my daughter and here she was and it just felt right to keep up the life I was used to. Anyway, I digress. There in the midst of the heat, mosquitoes and dust I saw a beautiful little cream crocheted dress with a chocolate ribbon around the neck. It was at least 3 years too early and frankly too elegant a dress for a child, but I was quite sick of pink and I fell in love with it.

I want that, I pleaded with the OA who was juggling the Brat on his shoulders along with the many packages he was carrying (couldn’t use a stroller because the ground was too uneven). He looked at me with pity in his eyes – clearly his wife had finally lost her mind. The huge dark lady in a turban, manning the stall caught the exchange and quick to make a sale took it down and told me she’d crocheted it herself. Once it was in my hands there was no giving it back. The lady then asked me who I wanted it for and I opened the wrap a crack to show her the tiny, burnt up, sleeping Bean.

That’s all it took. She cut her price by about 50% and gave it to me. I brought the dress home, hung it up in the Bean’s cupboard and waited. And waited. And waited. Because the darn Bean just didn’t grow into it. Finally last year she fitted into it and I wish I’d caught a picture of her then. Summer has come to Delhi and as I put her into the dress this year I realised she’d outgrown it and was looking rather coltish. I felt a little twinge. This was the first outfit I’d bought for the Bean after her birth and in true MM fashion it was completely useless to her right then and bought entirely on a whim. Here’s a picture of her in it, chronicled so that even if I eventually give it away, she can someday read this post and sue me for dragging her around when she was barely able to crack open an eyelid!

On the other hand, maybe she’ll remember that she was brought up to be fuss-free and fun and stay that way.

Telling the Brat off over something I am sure he didn't deserve!

How do you hold a moonbeam in your hand?

The Bean is an original. Main nahi kehti, yeh zamaana kehta hai! Fiesty, warm, engaging, hot-headed, articulate, tiny, full of beans… I could go on. Whenever I want to describe her, I remember the song in The Sound of Music – How do you solve a problem like Maria? It was written for my daughter. Including the scene at the end of the song when she comes dashing in, her hair flying, her wimple in her hand. That is so Bean. As she turns five I’m in shock – didn’t I just announce my pregnancy yesterday? Wasn’t it this morning that my friends from around the world gave me a virtual baby shower? And can I say I have ‘babies’ at home, if the younger one is already five? Was she ever a baby or was she always a precocious little old lady?

She has given up all pretence of being the Brat’s younger sister and is constantly bossing him around. She is horribly irritable and the Brat just needs to look at her for her to explode in red hot anger and attack him with her little fists, if she believes there is more to the look than ignorant bystanders like me can decipher. There’s no point arguing with her, because she will not take a slight lightly. The OA says she is all me. I disagree. She is me into about 50 and that is always a scary thought. My mother has the last laugh. My father pulls the OA aside and points out that there is hope, it’s just a matter of another 15 years at worst and hopefully some besotted fool will take her off his hands just as I was taken off his. The OA is usually torn between wanting his money back and a sliver of hope.

Okay, so maybe I’m being mean, but you need to experience Bean to know how she carries you away like a sudden but fierce flood. Watch out world, don’t mess with my Bean. I have put all I have into her. I want her to be strong, fierce, tenacious, determined, intelligent – and she is the best pupil a mother could want, soaking up everything I teach her, her eyes sparkling with interest. And then she throws one of my teachings back at me and I struggle between maternal disapproval at being spoken to in that way and a sort of satisfaction at the back of my mind, that my work has not been in vain. It’s a fine line to walk and often she says things that are unbelievable cheeky and completely inappropriate coming from a four year old. But you give it some thought, put in a context and you realise it’s just a very sharp brain speaking out aloud. At this point I gently tell her that she might be right in the thought process, but perhaps the way she said it was wrong for someone her age, or perhaps it’s not something people are happy to hear. Here are some samples.

Bean to someone: Get up you lazyhead!

Me: What on earth is a lazy head?

Bean: You said I can’t go around saying bum, bum, so I’m saying head instead.

—

Me: We’re going to Aunty X and Uncle Y’s place. Remember? We attended their wedding some months ago?

Bean: Yes I do. Do they have babies for us to play with yet?

Me: Nope.

Bean: So then why did they get married?

Point hai, milord. Maybe I should hire her out to irate parents whose children refuse to produce grandchildren for them.

—

Bean: Brat, don’t do silly things on the road or you’ll die and Mama will have to marry another man to have another baby.

Me: Eh? Why do I have to marry another man?

Bean: Because if you have another son with dada he might be stupid again.

This was no slur on her father’s intelligence. On further questioning I figured that she believed that if the OA and I had another son then naturally he’d be the spitting image of the previous one.

—

Bean: Mama, when you smile, your eyes shine as brightly as sequins and the bathroom light. High praise indeed.

—

Me: Beanie! God alone knows where your shoes are.

Bean: God is busy taking care of all humans. He doesn’t know where my shoes are. —

I’m singing to her and she says, “Mama, pause that for a minute while I go get my toys.”

—

On finding out that she has chicken pox: Chickens don’t have spots! Dogs do. So I think I have dog pox.

—

Pre -X’mas she was annoying me with something and I threatened her with a tight jhaanp. To which she responded, “You can’t do that. Santa doesn’t give presents to bad mommies who jhaanp their babies.”

—

In response to being told that she has to be really quiet in Church when we attended my cousin’s wedding:”I WILL talk in Church if I want to because its God house not yours and we go there to talk to him, not to sit quietly and watch people get married.”

—

To me: Mama, if I play with Dada’s iPad too much you can give it back to Nana. That will teach me not to be so naughty.

—-

Reason # 239 not to use sarcasm on your child.

Me: Bean, what are you doing in the bathroom?

Bean: Eating breakfast?

Lesson learnt. She won’t hear that from me again.

—

Me: Bean, what have you been up to? You’ve got biscuits on your bum.

Bean: Really? Help!! save me. There’s a biscuit on my bum!! help!

Yes, she does have a sense of humour.

—

Me: Bean, do you know what sardines are?

Bean: It’s when lots of people are squashed into one one place.

Proof that I don’t feed her enough variety but spend the day talking to her.

—

Bean, making little morsels of rice on her plate and playing the old fashioned house game: Mama, I’m going to eat your house first. For so many days I lived in your tummy and now you will live in mine. And now I’m eating Nani’s house so that she can live inside my tummy with you and you won’t miss your Mama.”

The circle of life?

—
Proof that we speak too many languages and confuse her at times. She asks me, “Kanna, mishti chahiye?”

—

Bean making up a song she titled ‘The Christmas Wish’. Sample this -

“Christmas never comes because my Mama won’t let it.

Christmas is the coldest day, I have felt it.

Whatever you do,

even if you get some glue,

a Christmas wish will never come for youuuu.”

So young yet so angsty and it all ends with Mama as the Grinch

—

Me: What do you mean you won’t do it? Even your pop will do it.

Bean: Yes. That’s because HE is scared of you. I’m not.

—

Me: No, no, no. No, you may not change yet again to go out for lunch.

Bean: God gave you one, only one little girl and you don’t even dress her properly. Arrgh.

—

Sitting in the balcony and talking to Bean about the importance of greenery, environment etc. She points to the hibiscus and says earnestly, “I like greenery Mama, but I would also like some more red-ery, pink-ery and blue-ery.”

—

Bean: Ma, Uncle told me that ice cream is good for your health. It gives you muscles.

Me: Really? Let me call and ask him if he told you that.

Bean (hastily): No, no… maybe it wasn’t him after all. Maybe I’m tired and confused and need a nap. I’ll think again and tell you who told me.

—

Bean watching an F1 car drive into the pitstop : “Now those people are going to beat the driver because he didnt finish the race.”

—

Brat is chasing a fly and finally ends up whacking the TV screen with a dino, trying to kill it. I scream in terror that he will spoil the screen.

Bean: Mama, don’t shout at him. Flies carry diseases. Do you want the TV to get a disease?

—

Me: Bean, if you run around without your slippers, your feet will get ugly, dirty and cracked.

Bean (seriously): Like yours, you mean?

And this considering I have pretty well cared for feet.

—

Me: Brat, eat your breakfast. What are you waiting for?

Bean: Christmas?

—

Me: No, you may not watch TV. You already saw half an hour this afternoon.

Bean: I didn’t, Ma. You’re fooling yourself.

—

Bean (pushing away my hand and tissue and shoving one finger up a nostril) – No thank you, Mama. You said we have to do our own work. I’ll clean my own nose, you clean your own nose.

—

Ours is one of those homes where scissors and medicine are easily accessible to both kids and they’re simply told not to touch them. It’s worked until now and they never touch either of them. Until a few days ago when she carefully cut a chunk out of her fringe in an attempt to reduce the length. When I read her the riot act she looked up at me and seriously asked, ‘Why are you so angry? I saved you the money for a haircut.”

Dressed in her brother’s hand me downs she looks like a neglected child. And that is no fault of his, because his clothes come down to her in pristine condition but are very clearly boys’ clothes. Ten minutes on her person and they begin to look their age. And while I try to keep her away from my world of lifestyle journalism it’s not easy and she loves picking up the magazines after I am done with them and looking at the bright and colourful pictures, pointing out which model’s outfit is the best. She has rather good taste for a child and will unerringly point out something strikingly stylish as her favourite. I try to take them away from her and then remember that I grew up in a house where no book or magazine was offlimits and that it in part contributed to my love for reading.  She’s not been taught to read yet but is always found poring over a favourite fairy tale, almost reciting the story verbatim. It’s been a challenge to resist teaching her to read as the school has requested us and I can’t wait for them to give us the go ahead.

She often crosses the fine line between bravery and foolishness and will climb up a high tree until she’s on a branch that is too weak and I begin to pray for her safe descent. The OA waits patiently under the branch for it to wait while the Brat rolls his eyes and asks me why his sister was stupid enough to climb on to a weak branch. Not for her the boundaries of caution and care. Every bough must be conquered, every hill must be climbed. She was the youngest and tiniest child at a recent ziplining event, the belt and harness just about fitting her. While bigger children stood at the starting point and looked nervous, she jumped from foot to foot in excitement, hardly able to wait. And then she took off and as she flew by, high above our heads she flung her arms out, threw her head back and laughed a belly laugh of sheer joy.

Wheezing, asthmatic, prone to rashes, it’s not right for her to be playing in dust and dirt and yet the moment I let her out of my sight she’s knee deep in filth and in seventh heaven. She plays in the mud, she pets dogs, her food can’t make the short journey from plate to mouth without incident, she must peer into the mail box when we visit people and I have gone hoarse telling her that it’s impolite, she cannot help but touch that unidentifiable mush in the middle of the garden and she must splash in every puddle. It sounds like a dream childhood but my temper frays and I snap. And then I regret it when she looks up at me with those disproportionately huge eyes in a tiny face and I am reminded that she’s still just a baby.

A few years ago the doctor was checking her for yet another rash, while she lay on the doctor’s table, gasping for breath and all the while making jokes, pointing to something on the shelf, chatting with the doctor and making funny faces. And the lady looked at me and said – ‘I see sick children everyday and its understandable that they’re cranky and sullen. It’s amazing to see her spirit.’

We’re already falling into one of those legendary volatile mother-daughter relationships, both so alike in temperament. There are days we hug and kiss each other until our mouths dry up and other days when I scream and she stomps around the house with a scowl painted on to her face. The two men of the house take one look at the tempers flaring and wisely retreat into their respective corners.

I don’t know if women are born wise and nurturing, but for all the running around the house screaming, clowning around, she instinctively knows when someone is unwell. Mama? Why are you making that face? Is your knee hurting? Is your head aching? And she’ll run around plumping pillows. She has even as an 18 month old pulled the Brat’s head into her lap and stroked his forehead till he falls asleep. At five she truly believes that she’s a grown daughter who must take care of me. Foot rubs to put me to sleep on days that she notices me limping (some days she crawls under the dining table while I am eating and I jump in shock as tiny little hands begin to massage my feet and work out the knots with professional ease), scolds her father if he dares raise his voice or even an eyebrow at me, insists on talking to every family member who calls up and rolls her eyes when I come up with something she believes to be untenable.

Her father, funnily is her biggest enemy and I see the relationship between my father and me play out again. They rage against each other, they match wits, they hold out stubbornly waiting for the other to fall and I’m surprised because the OA is the most goodnatured and calm man I’ve seen (well, he’d have to be, to be married to me, wouldn’t he?) loses it entirely where she is concerned. I’ve always said that every man should have a daughter. And the OA who has had few women in his life and rarely any this formidable, is rethinking every stereotype. She burps with the best, she tries to whistle, she cycles furiously to keep up with him and she is braver and more willing to take a risk than most of the Brat’s naughtiest friends. Fiercely competitive, she will wrestle with him and not give up until she’s lost every bit of strength in her tiny little body. The OA is not a man given to stereotypes to begin with, and a very fair man in general so wrapping his head around the conundrum that is the Bean, takes a lot out of him. One minute he probably has visions of a beautiful bride being given away, the other, he wants her to throw convention to the winds and drive rallies with him. It’s been worth having a daughter, just to watch one more man change the way he looks at womankind.

Each morning my little moonbeam (I call the Brat my son-beam and her my moon-beam – haha , geddit?) wakes up with a smile on her face, ready to take on the day. Come evening she’s still bouncing off the walls and I’m drained by the effort of keeping up with her, matching wits and answering queries. And as she falls asleep, her long lashes resting on a skinny little cheek that could do with some fattening up, I marvel at how wonderful she is.

Happy Birthday my darling Bean. On your fifth, as I type this last paragraph in I have tears in my eyes – as one of you once wisely said, that is what happens when you have so much love inside that it overflows from the eyes. And so my eyes are overflowing with love right now. This is good news because I’ve spent the day in a towering rage after you got playdoh stuck in your hair. I ask Dada what he wants to say about you and he thinks for a minute before he responds, “The Bean is the fun factor in my life – she brings us so much joy. The Brat makes me feel warm inside and everytime I think of him I smile. And you, my wife just add to my work. ” Err. Okay.

On that note, again, happy happies, little not-so-hungry caterpillar. Watching you turn into a human being has been the most fascinating experience. I can’t wait to see you turn into the most beautiful butterfly ever.

Chicken pox can't keep me down. If I want, I'll hang upside down

Sulking during a rare mall visit because I told her not to touch anything.

Mata Bean-eshwari convincing herself as well as followers that this pose rids one of hiccups. There is also a song that goes with it where she threatens the hiccups with a variety of dire consequences. At last count she had acquired a head rush and was still not rid of the hiccups. Clearly her faith isn't moving mountains!

Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum.

Jam biscuits can be eaten - or turned into googly eyes.

She loves art and can spend the entire day colouring and pasting. This was something on at the Epicentre in Gurgaon. We sat there for ages so that she could watch the ladies at work.

Reach for the stars, baby!

Of chicken and pork – II

If I’d thought that the Bean getting chicken pox was the worst of it, it wasn’t. Keeping the kids away from each other was a Herculean task. We entered the house and both kids flew to Button – I screamed, “Don’t touch him!!” They came screeching to a halt and remembered everything I’d coached them all the way from Delhi.

At this point everyone in the family rushed in to ensure that their feelings weren’t hurt and I lost track. The basic rules were that we were to sanitize our hands with bottles lying around the house in between touching my two and the Button. Button had also been given a homoeopathic antidote and I don’t care what people say about the system, it worked, and how!

X’mas at our place has always been crazy. Throw in three kids who have to be kept apart and a bout of chicken pox and the crazy quotient sky rocketed. On the whole it wasn’t too bad because the Brat had his shot and the Button had the antidote. So the whole family did their best to entertain the Bean and not let her feel unloved each time the Brat and Button cuddled. If I had a rupee for every person who said it was unfair to expose the Button to CP, I’d be a rich woman. But I think we’re all a little richer for having spent that time together. The Brat and the Button were soon inseparable. The Button actually believed he was the Brat’s equal and would keep beating him up, pulling his hair, crawling all over him, and finally pushing him over, all while the Brat lay on the floor laughing helplessly and hugging him.

We had our annual X’mas party planned so it seemed only fair to call and tell everyone who had kids to keep them away from mine. Dutifully we called up and told everyone that we’d understand if they didn’t show up. I was surprised by the number of people who showed up anyway, some without their kids and some with. The kids had a blast and I hugged the OA through the last dance that night, grateful we’d come home. I can’t imagine what we’d have done stuck in our flat in Gurgaon, unable to take the kids to the common park, to the grocery store, unable to have friends over. A shitty X’mas that would have been.

And in all this we’d wake up each morning and frantically examine the Button to make sure there were no spots on his little dimpled self while he’d look at us with his curious, big bright eyes, convinced that he’d left the comfort of his home only to end up in a madhouse. It was almost like having a third baby and the OA and I kept him with us as much as we could, washing his little butt, changing diapers and feeding him his bottle. Everything but his meals – only his mother could manage to make him finish his entire portion. It was also her job to feed the ultra fussy Bean who can drive a saint to crime. I have no idea what she did in there and I don’t want to know. All I know is that she made insanely huge portions and got them down the Bean’s throat while I enjoyed the respite from begging, pleading, coaxing, screaming, threatening to feed her to crocodiles and finally attempting suicide.

And then of course because all of this was too good to last,  we woke up one morning to find spots all over the Brat  -he’d got the bloody chicken pox after all. I’ll never forget the betrayal writ large on his face, ” YOU said if I got the vaccination I won’t get it!” Oh well, we tried, I reasoned with him, but the doctor said you might have already been in the incubation period.

But a child who has had a poke in his butt and still gets CP is not to be reasoned with. He got it worse than the Bean. At least a 100 little boils all over his body and we were back to the neem leaf and oatmeal baths and slathering on calamine by the gallon. On the bright side, his bout barely lasted a week. On one occasion, while trying to make sense of the unfairness of getting it after having had the poke, he seriously explained to a visitor, “I got it because Nani cooks too many things for dinner. We had chicken as well as pork at the same meal. So it turned into chicken pox.” Errr, okay, whatever helps you make your peace with it!

The Bean was torn between relief and remorse. “Now he won’t leave me to go play with the Button!” and “Maybe he got it because I was teasing him and saying I’m coming to lick you. I’m very sorry now.”

But honi ko kaun taal sakta hai yaada yaada and we couldn’t have got it in a better place. All day they played across my parents’ and my uncle’s homes, swinging, cycling, climbing trees, sitting by the pond and watching fish and even going boating to the Sangam. None of this could however make it up to the Brat that he could no longer touch the Button. And we tried hard, I’ll tell you this much. In fact many weeks later, we were back in Gurgaon and the Bean casually asked, “Mama, how do you know when you love someone?” And the Brat responded gravely (he thinks he’s an adult now that his permanent teeth are in), ” When you love someone you want to play with them all the time, you share your toys with them and if you have chicken pox you don’t touch them.” I thought that summed up love pretty succinctly.