The small world of a little boy

Nevaan is up for a hearty spell of laughter and he is putting a big effort to laugh louder than the cause and capability of his five-and-half years old lungs. I have been telling him some words of wisdom like we elders tell the kids. Now I realize maybe my words are the cause of his hilarity. So in order to justify his much-labored laughing I also start putting extra effort, bringing more buffoonery in my words and manners. Then he stops suddenly. ‘Mamaji, don’t disturb me! I’m laughing at something else,’ he informs me. The comic color instantly vanishes from my face. Like a beaten joker whose jokes have failed I leave the scene and look back after going some paces. He is laughing even louder now. ‘Mamaji, now I’m laughing real laughter. It’s real laughter. You look funnier when you aren’t trying to be funny,’ he throws a bright light on hitherto hidden gem of my personality.

Nevaan is inspired by a chef’s program on television. So he is reading out recipes and alongside making foodie castles in air. It’s a make-believe mouth-watering heaven of aloo-mutter-paneer-karela-lauki-subzi-pizza-burgers-cheese-sandwich. ‘This is my recipe for the best food in the world,’ he says. The name sounds otherworldly, or maybe classy. ‘So it must be super-costly?’ I ask. ‘Yes, not less than ten rupees!’ he brags. ‘But don’t you think ten rupees is too small for such a grand delicacy. It should be at least ten thousand rupees,’ I suggest. He thinks over and says, ‘Ok, ten thousand rupees then. But you have to give ten rupees also.’ Well, he is more familiar with ten rupees. That’s what we call being more practical.

Going with his relaxed ways, he reads very slowly. It seems his little tongue finds the words heavy. But there is a list that turns his tongue into the swiftest horses in recitation. It’s the laminated menu of a restaurant. Out on a dining night he fell in love with the masterpiece and we had to pay the owner so that he could carry it with him. Now this is his Bible, Geeta, Vedas all. The list unleashes waters over the tongue and removes the hesitating rust and there he catapults full force into narration. Samosa-kachori-dhokla-aloobada-bhajibada-breadpakoda-pohajalebi-rabdi-pavbhaji-chholebature-tikki…. It goes like the latest Vande Bharat train. Mothers are mothers. ‘How I wish they include a lesson on menu and recipes in the syllabus. He would beat all in that,’ hi mother sighs.

He has watched too many ghosts on cartoon networks and feels there are phantoms in dark rooms. He has to get his toy from a dark room. So he is all sweet words of request to me. ‘You are afraid to go alone in the dark,’ I tease him. He sits on a chair and implores me to go and get it. ‘No, I’m not scared, I’m just a bit more lazy. That’s it,’ he clarifies. So being lazy hurts one’s ego a bit less than being called a coward.

The washroom is in a corner in the yard. So he has to mend his ways after dusk so that the offended elders would not say ‘no’ to escorting him to the attendance of nature’s calls. But being a reformed boy from dusk to bedtime is too much. So he has to find some solution. In the morning one day I see him walking to the main gate with chalk piece in hand. I observe stealthily from across a corner. He has perhaps found the key to beat his fear of ghosts. ‘Bhoot! NOT IN!’ he has tamed the ghosts with the instruction on the gate.

The vacations are over and Nevaan is going back to his place. We are waiting for their train at the platform. An old man approaches and starts playing with him. ‘Give me money,’ he says. ‘I don’t have any money,’ Nevaan replies. ‘Then give me your shirt,’ the old man chuckles. I give him a coin on behalf of Nevaan. Now the old man is blessing the little boy and offering him the same coin. Well, neither Nevaan nor the old man is interested in a mere coin. Hard times. A coin has lost even its symbolic value. The poor coin is back in my pocket. There it requests a ten rupee note to take leave off my pocket and change its master. The old man is now satisfied as per the latest begging norms. He is a poor man from Rajasthan wandering on pilgrimages with little bits of charity money on the way. ‘He looks like my grandson,’ he compliments Nevaan in lieu of the ten rupees received.