The Waffle Iron

One mile closer, and looking back...

There's this often repeated saying that goes "A picture speaks a thousand words", it may be true. But I've always found that those thousand words carry more detail than an eye could discern from the picture. They burnish, they colour, they highlight the beauty that is more often overlooked, than not. Sadly, in my case, the mosaic of Literature seems to have been replaced by the parquet of quotidian pursuances, now. (Pardon the indiscretion in use of metaphor) I feel reduced to a philistine when I discover that I don't even remember the name of that Wordsworth poem that I knew by rote five years ago. Literature meant Wotton, Eliot, Tennyson, Pope, Tagore, Davies, Frost, Auden, Browning, Shakespeare, Sarojini Naidu, Keats, Premchand, R. K. Narayan, Tolstoy, Chesterton, et al back then. It bounded me in amazement at their skill to capture the pathos, the desire for action, the ecstasy and the general sentiment in their time. But, of all that prose, only two still cling on... One: Kamala's Das' 'Punishment in Kindergarten'. The only one I know of, which delicately condemns children's insensitivity. Therein lies its novelty - the denouncement of what is always glorified:

...
On the lawn, in clusters, sat my schoolmates sipping
Sugarcane, they turned and laughed;
Childen are funny things,they laugh
In mirth at other's tears, I buried
My face in the sun-warmed hedge
And smelt the flowers and the pain
...

The other one, that I still remember to date, and the one that left me with the strongest impression contains these lines by Robert Frost:

The woods are lonely,
Dark and deep
But I have promises to keep
And miles to go,
Before I sleep
And miles to go,
Before I sleep

After I read that, I mulled over what time would bestow upon or take away from me. Now when I look back, I think I've walked a mile farther. But, there's a strange impulse to run all that way back, and walk that last mile again. And walk it with the same faltering gait, and stumble too. It's that liberty to make mistakes that attracts me. Now that you've walked that mile, you're expected to walk steadier, choose the right lanes and plod your way through the tortuous route. It's rewarding to feast your eyes on the clichéd 'light at the end of the tunnel', but I think I'm insane.... I'd rather wait and walk for another mile before entering that tunnel. I'd rather be laughed at, as a child. Children laugh at tears, but they also forgive.

If you've ever drawn a kid close, and taught her a new rhyme or told her a story; you'd know what I'm talking about. It draws the blinds over the 'big, bad world' around you, and makes you chuckle at how silly you might have been at that age. You're flooded with nostalgia and child-like pleasure at the same time. When my four-year old niece got back from school, she'd come up to me and teach ME the rhymes she'd learnt for the day:

Machli jal ki rani hain
Jeevan uska pani hain
Haath lagao tho dar jaayegi
Baahar nikalo tho mar jaayegi

And with all the expressions and actions too!

And then, there are times when they leave you stunned with their questions. When I told her the story of 'Little Red Riding Hood'.

I said: "And so there lived a little girl called Little Red Riding Hood. She always wore this tiny red cap, with a red frock. She lived in a neat little house... "
"But why RED! Doesn't she like pink better? Why did she have such a weird name anyway?"
"Well! SHE likes red, alright. And her parents probably liked to call her that. I mentioned it was her pet name, didn't I?"
"No, you didnt." (She's sulking now)
"It was. So LRRH..."
"What was her real name, then?"
"Never mind THAT... So, LRRH had a grandmother who lived deep in a forest. And LRRH was VERY fond of her..."
(Now, it so happens that 'grandmother' in Telugu is two different words, one for your paternal and one for your maternal grandma. I tried playing safe, and said 'grandmother' in English)
"Will that be ammamma (maternal), or naanamma (paternal)?"
"It was her ammamma."(I pat myself secretly)
"....So LRRH's mom sends her with a basket of red apples to her grandma, to the forest" (Now, I'm beginning to wonder myself: What mother would send her child to a FOREST, that too with a basket of apples!)
Fortunately, the little devil didn't have too many bright ideas this time.
I continued, "There lived a wicked wolf in the same forest, who'd spied on LRRH while she was singing to herself happily, making her way to grandma's cottage. And he thought to himself: What a fine meal she'll make!"
At this point, I don't recall what exactly prompts the wolf to go to LRRH's grandma's cottage, so I'm desperately clutching at straws and trying to make up some intelligible crap.
"It so happens to be, that the wicked wolf knows that LRRH is visiting the old lady. So he laughs greedily and thinks of a plan and goes to grandma's place. He then gobbles her up, wears her gown, cap and spectacles; and tucks himself into her bed, lying in wait for LRRH."
She's looking at me with her eyes open wide, and moves closer to clutch my arm. I've got her riveted!
"So when LRRH arrives, and knocks at grandma's door; the wolf shouts, 'The door's open, come in child'."
"How come the wolf speaks English?"
"This one does. You know, there are some animals, like talking parrots that learn how to talk!"
"Uh, huh!"
"Yeah! So LRRH is frightened by the wolf's voice, because grandma's voice is softer. She asks: Grandma, what's wrong with your voice? The wolf says: It's my cold, child. Now come right in, will you? So, LRRH walks into grandma's bedroom and sees grandma with a long snout, looking VERY different."
"But, WHY would grandma have a long snout? Did the cold make her nose longer too?"
"I told you it was the wolf, didn't I? Grandma was inside the wolf's stomach. So the wolf now had a swollen tummy. And LRRH is shocked: What's wrong with your nose grandma? And why is your tummy huge? The wolf replies: I told you, child. It's the cold. I'm ill. Come closer and give me those apples...."
"I dont like this story, tell me another one."
"But, you haven't even listened to the whole thing!"
"I don't like it. Tell me another one."
"Okay", I say; and toss around all those silly fairy tales in my head. I don't recall most of them. Only Cinderella, Thumbelina, Rumpeltiltskin and Snow White - all vague recollections. But, I don't want to complicate the situation any more. So I make up my own Indian version from fragments of Champak and Tinkle stories, complete with graphical descriptions, that I was very proud of. But before I can finish even that, she's either fallen asleep, or isn't in the mood for stories any more.

"Let's play Teacher, Teacher", she says. And I sigh resignedly.

posted by Cos Θ @ 5:40 PM