Papa hopes it will be breezy. Hot summer days have but one hope, some breeze, even if it is the kind that feels like someone opened the door to a large oven. It is a Sunday where he can relax. Other days are spent in this furnace-like city, supervising construction and civil work and workers. He has just branched out and started his own tiny civil contracting business. While the physical exhaustion his youth handles well, the mental stressors are a gamble. His sites are closed for Holi. It would be a few days before the workers returned.
All he wanted was to be sprawled out shirtless on the living room bed and have his daughters pop pimples on his back playing doctor-nurse. I was adept at creating tiny explosions. Sitting astride on his back I’d make disapproving sounds, sighing and saying – “OK, I will have to operate. Nurse, please get the scissors, spirit, cotton, and earbuds”. P would scamper around for essentials and stand next to the bed with a tray full of equipment. He could sleep, his back eased by the weight of his pimple-popping riotous older one and the spills dressed by the younger Florence Nightingale.
BUT his medical team needed an outing. So off we went on a bike for the long-overdue family picnic. As the bike slanted and turned softly around the curves of India Gate, my excitement is about to turn to tears. Unable to process accurately some emotions, a fear would come clutching and tighten my little chest. Ma and pa are happy, so I quickly hide it. We are promptly set up with uncles and aunts, durries, and food. He notices it first - that like a sugar crash, my excitement is now standing on the precipice of a sulk. He pulls me away from the group and asks if I want to watch a monkey dance. I don’t. So, we watch the monkey eat peanuts instead. I want to cry; the monkey looks so sad. Pa sees me reign it in and asks himself – “Enda pati? (what happened)”. He can never tell. Ma calls out from a distance and points him to a balloon seller. We move. Father and daughter drawn by pinks, oranges, blues, and colors I didn’t know names of yet. Neither does he. For work there were paint shade cards that labeled and numbered the colors. These balloons and this daughter without the right labels, confound him. I, on the other hand, am mesmerized. I open my mouth for the first time since we left home that afternoon. “Nammak Kalikyam” shall we play? “Alla pinne” why not he says and asks me to pick one. His generosity despite his fatigue is not missed by me, again tears threaten to spill. Everything is overwhelming.
Back on the durries P has abandoned her Florence Nightingale avatar and is on a self-propelled spin. Round and round she does wobbly twirls. Suddenly, she stops, notices the monkey and makes a run to hug it. The monkey jumps and darts behind his madari. Ma sprints after our own little spinning monkey terrorizer. Papa and I break into helpless laughter. Only this little one could bully monkeys with her excitement. There is a gentle breeze.
Written in response to a prompt in the Ochre Sky Writing Circle
and (Raju Tai) Inka naam tho suna hi hoga.
What a gorgeous holiday moment - thank you for taking us on this trip back in time :')
How the hell did I miss it?! Roshni jaan! I'm sooo happy to see you here and I cannot wait to soak in more of your storytelling :))) loved the intro of sepia toned pictures this time ❤️ I want more!