Chronicles of little Nevaan

 

Little Nevaan is at a temple with his Mausiji. With innocently garlanding ease, a kid has crammed many Sanskrit slokas, so no wonder he is the centre of attraction. With an acrobat’s agile leap, he jumps from slogan to slogan, garnering heaps of praise from those around. Poor Nevaan is already tired with practicing alphabets and numbers on the slate board and assembling and reading educational puzzles before coming to the temple. And now this irrational and idiosyncratic chanting by this chit of a boy. As if there is a savory slice of lime pickle in his mouth, which he likes with an impeccable and uncomplicated sense of cherishment, Nevaan tries to divert the show in his direction.

With the urgency of rattling trams and angrily hawking vendors, he recites Gayatri Mantra and Mahamritunjya Mantra. Egged on by the heady pampering of his parents, the other child unleashes sloka after sloka from his big repertoire. Coming to terms with a sense of humane realism, little Nevaan brings out the best shot in his kitty. He starts whistling. It’s his inalienable right to showcase what he considers to be the best item in his kitty. He hammers his tone to stonewall the Sanskrit slokas coming out so profusely.

Only a gentleman with silver-grey hair tries to be the solo audience to his offering. Nevaan fails to grab attention. So the other boy wins the show—prominently, purposefully and publicly. On top of it, it gets him another reprimand from his ever-correcting mama. He responds. At night, his mama opens her phone to find a notification from her Amazon account regarding a payment failure of one lakh rupees. Nevaan put an i-phone and a gold ring in the cart and made an unsuccessful attempt at payment. He knows his mom loves the money more in the purse instead of its changing forms, especially the costly gadgets.

There is a visitor at the house. He is haggling him with the question, ‘When did you come beta?’ Now little Nevaan is clueless about dates and days. It was about two weeks ago when he arrived at his maternal uncle’s house, yours truly by the way. The questioner looks serious enough to have his answer at any cost. He repeats the question a few times. ‘I came on the day I came here,’ Nevaan gives the asker a crisp glimpse of his much-sought answer.

I’m reading and little Nevaan is looking for something more substantial, a playmate. Lost in the reclusive and remote world contained in the book, I try to ignore him. He is making strange guttural sounds. ‘What is this?’ I’m forced to enquire. ‘I’m asking “What are you doing?” in Chinese,’ he enlightens me. ‘I’m reading a book,’ I reply in Hindi to his Mandarin query. ‘No, no I’m asking what are you doing in reading,’ he simplifies the query. I make it that maybe he wants to know what I’m reading. ‘I’m reading that little kids shouldn’t disturb the elders when they are reading a book,’ I try to somehow salvage my reading session. This piece of information doesn’t fit his plan at all. ‘No, no I was just asking what are you doing,’ he tries to avoid the unbecoming issue of kids disturbing book-reading elders. And before I can reply he says, ‘Ok, I see you are playing with a book.’ He continues with his strange sounds. The answer to his second main question doesn’t exist because the question itself has been wiped clean on his slate.

By the way, his mother is very happy. ‘He has started to get up in Inglish now!’ she gushes. ‘Today he said, “I’m oothing in the morning,” and last night he said, “I’m sleeping,” so that means he is sleeping in eengleesh also!’ Well, this world seems to be some primeval mother’s creation.

I’m engrossed in the miseries of the bigger world. The paper spread in front of my face carries deep and voluminous folds of activities that grown-ups are engaged in. Geostrategic wars, political brawls, diseases, killings, sports rivalries holding my attention with their clawy tentacles. I’m sitting on a chair. Little Nevaan is standing in front of me. He is a bundle of energy carrying ecumenical vibrancy and a dreamy future-map in his twinkling eyes. I’m, on the other hand, carrying a timeworn load born of weathering of long years. No wonder, our worlds are completely different.

The double spread newspaper chronicles a sage of grit and glories of the past twenty-four hours. He is staring at the full-page luscious advertisement by a global food chain. Crunchy grilled patty, juicy toasted buns and grilled burgers are presented for a child’s food paradise. A picture speaks thousands of words. He has read entire tomes by the time I finish reading a few news columns. ‘Sufi mama, why aren’t you reading? You are just looking at the a, b, c, d. Read here. Yummy yummy masala mar ke, aha!’ he informs me that he has read all the pictures and I have been merely looking at the letters in the meantime.

He has turned a big informer in the house now. The gossiping neighborhood aunties use his informing skills. ‘Don’t tell what you hear inside the house to the people outside!’ he gets a reprimand from his mother. So he decides not to inform anyone about anything said inside the house anymore. ‘Ma doesn’t call you bulldozer auntie. Ma doesn’t say that your car is khatara uncle ji. Ma never says that you beat uncle with a stick aunty ji,’ he tries his best not to divulge any secret anymore. He is very happy as he returns. ‘Ma, I didn’t tell them anything as you said,’ he tells her and expects ice cream as a reward today.

He is around three and is taken to the doctor for a routine vaccine. He howls. All his wrongs for which he gets reprimanded flash before his terrified eyes. He thinks he is getting a punishment for all those pieces of mischief. ‘Dotter, dotter, please forgive me! Maaf kar do! I will stop eating candies. I will not watch mobile. I will stop watching cartoons on TV. I will study,’ he realizes all the sins that have possibly landed him in trouble. After a long list of will-nots, he realizes his sins are too big for these promises. Then he tries to bribe, ‘Dotter, I will give you the best plane, the red fighter plane!’ The doctor is amused. ‘O really! I will take it as my fees.’ The needle goes in. A loud cry. The tone is bordered on the abusive frequency. His mother senses it. She tries to forestall it by putting her hand on his mouth but Nevaan is successful in splurging a cuss word he has caught in the streets from the mouths of older street urchins.

We buy a new cycle with side-supporters on so that he learns the art of paddling and balancing. He is serious and sullen and sits in a corner. ‘Aren’t you happy with this beautiful gift?’ we ask. ‘No, I’m not happy. Now I have to fall from it many times!’ he explains the reason for his being in sullen mood. He has seen a few little ones toppling over as they learnt cycling. ‘What gift is this? I have to fall many times to play with it. No, no it’s not a good one,’ he condemns the latest purchase.

He is getting another dose of reprimand. He has written ‘Pupaya’ on his worksheet. The last papaya he ate didn’t come too sweet. So he improvised to make it sweeter. ‘But Ma, pupaya is very sweet,’ he tries to convince her. Maybe pupaya is sweeter than papaya. But in the world of grown-ups, the helplessness to adhere to the factual correctness doesn’t leave any space for the sweetness brought by a kid by changing some vowel.

The other day, after two hours of memorizing and writing exercise, he writes ‘Grabs’ for ‘Grapes.’ His mother gets a practical clue and grabs him by head and shakes it quite forcefully to ruffle his nicely done hair. He looks shaken like a pigeon cat-handled by an angry cat. He doesn’t react, he responds. ‘Ma, you tell what is two plus, minus, multiply a, b, c, d, dog and cat!’ he yells his question.