Besotted

Some time back, a friend of mine, who had come back after 10 years in the US, told me that she, born and brought up in India, was finding it difficult to cope. Her children, aged nine and six, who had spent all their lives in the US were, on the contrary, very happy. She remarked that adults sorely missed everyday comforts like uninterrupted power supply while children enjoyed simple pleasures like meeting lots of friendly people on the street and being able to run to your neighbour’s house without an appointment.

Be like a child. Live in the moment. Never lose your sense of wonder. Words we read in inspirational books and soon forget.

Last week, walking down Gandhi Road with my two-year-old, I slowed down to her pace for purely practical reasons. I didn’t want to lug her around all the way. And walking alongside her, I started to look at the things she was looking at. What was she looking at so intently? What was she fascinated with? Before I realised it, I was seeing the world through her eyes. And saw Gandhi Road in all its glory. Yes, in all its glory. Call me a die-hard romantic if you will but that’s what I saw.

It was terrific. So many things happening. So many people - different sizes, shapes and colours. Stray cows and dogs. Gypsies selling beautiful chains of beads. Vehicles honking loudly, fighting for a way through the human ocean. Toys that could make the best-behaved child throw a tantrum. Cheap jewellery sparkling garishly. Rat-infested hotels. 

It was an R K Narayan moment. The sort of moment when you promise yourself, “India, for better or for worse.”

The shoe shop I went to had so much choice of sandals – my sort of sandals. The ones which cost a hundred bucks and last only long enough for you to not get too bored with them. (Flashback to my long-lost love, Bombay. Was I finally getting over it?). Where was I looking all this time?

I stopped to watch the chappathi man flipping eight chappatthis together on his tawa. Was locked in the moment. Turned back five seconds later (that’s all a mom is allowed, you know) to check on kutti and saw the young man next to me spitting out his paan-juice. Looked down in horror to see that it fell right on target. On my daughter. Who was, of course, absolutely unconcerned. The nonchalant young man and I both bent down to inspect and I found, to my relief, that there was just a thin line of it on her dress. The rest of her was not anointed. The young man, with his mouth full of paan, assured me with gestures that my daughter was okay and sauntered off.

I laughed. I was too besotted with Gandhi Road then to shout or curse.