How often have you been complimented when you were a kid?
I know my parents cant remember too many instances of that happening. I have always been the trouble maker for my otherwise loving parents. They are the kinds who ran away got married secretly and then broke the news almost 2 years later. That sure needed balls (pardon my language) but seriously i am talking about the 80's when sporting a short hair cut would ensure you get stares.
PS: Ma had an awesome haircut back then, commonly known to as "boycut"
Given the above background, i think its safe to assume i was never the shy, quiet demure girl in the family. As a kid, i had stitches on my forehead, band aids on both the knees and a toy gun dangling from my shoulder. I was warned by Ma when we were invited for dinner to"Not Touch" anything.So i never did.
I would just go and trouble the pet, pour ice over him, aiming everytime for his ear , by the way i adore dogs but i hate those small toy looking white furry dogs..they can be called anything from Julie , Happy or in this case Pharaoh. Or i would probably slap the silly girl who would expect me to lie down as a patient while she would become the doctor. My tolerance level was always something i ran short on.
We did a lot dinners and social do's and usually it was outdoors. One of our favorite weekend plans were going on a drive to the highway and having lunch in the Dhabas on the way. My memory of these lunches are still so much fun, sitting on the Charpoy, butter laden rotis, lots of oily food, and divine lassi.While the children would be made to sleep on those Charpoys, the women would sit aside and gossip while Baba and the others would talk about cricket, football, office rules and Steel making .Since i stayed in Jamshedpur, everything was related to "Ispaat". However, i remember one fine day when i was trying to climb behind one of the huge trucks parked near the Dhaba and calling out to the other boys. The girl i slapped would be happy playing with her fancy tea-set.The boys were encouraged, and so we were three of us now, dangling behind the truck. The next thing we know is the truck stated moving and three of us shouting, the other two in fear and me in fun. I could remember the number of times my parents must have thanked the driver for hearing us and stopping the truck , or the times Ma said sorry to her gossiping friends whose eyebrows couldnt go down at me.
So this morning i saw my daughter with blood on her forehead hands and clothes and i screamed out to G"What happened" and rushed to pick up Keya. G came running behind me and was too shocked to speak anything when he saw me laughing ..like really hard , and so was my "injured " daughter. My daughter had Maybelline "Coral Red" nailpaint smeared on her forehead and all over.
History repeats..history repeats