her cute little earthen pot

Well, today another leaflet was added to the rulebook which I have created for myself to guide me to bring up my daughter. Ok, I confess that I am no God or angel, and I keep faltering on my self-made rules in some of my weakest of the weak moments. But, for me there are some yardstickts to measure upto, and I almost always immediately look for an explanation, to myself ofcourse, whenever a case of deviation occurs

Just for example, I take it as a matter of self-contentment that in her life of more than four years, I have not beaten her. I did not say never, because, recently, once I did touch her cheeks, when even after sufficient warnings, her hand or a finger or more involuntarily moved into her mouth and i wanted to convey the message that this offence was severe enough for me to act on my threat. Another two times when I actually slapped her are moment of shame for me, I should not have done that, those were completely controllable urges. And her expressions at those time are frozen into my memory, her tear laden eyes and that expression of helplesness coupled with disbelief and innocence made me promise to myself that at such moments I will never act on impuse again.

That is almost two-three years back and I am happy that I took this vow of non-violence. Because, now my scolding or sometimes even a warning does the trick. I think the concept of 'anti-biotics and the immunity system' applies here aptly. The more you expose your body to the anti-biotics, the more adapt the body becomes to fight against them. Hey, even this law applies to insects and pests as well.

Now, enough of history, biology and general knowledge. Let's start today's story...from the start.

We bought a matka kulfi a few days back. That was good one. We three ate from the single kulfi earthen pot which itself was very cute, in the car only. I did not throw the small cute pot, but took the trouble to bring it home safely, though it was smeared with left over sticky icecream, which even Jiya could not manage to lick away, though that was done decently enough.

Why? you may be tempted to ask!

Well! I am an attempted champion at 'best out of waste' stategy. When a bowl or even half of arhar dal is left after we are done with our lunch or dinner, as the case may be, i do not, in fact can not throw it away. I keep it in the fridge and next day make sambhar out of it. Even if it means for me to prepare for dosa or idli...... from scratch.

So, at home, I took the trouble to first clean it properly. And then, I drank my evening cup of tea in that 'kulhad', just once. Another attempt would have meant first confiscation and then sudden disappearance of that cute liitle piece, by the hands of my husband. Even after serious meltdown of the economy, he still earns sufficient enough for survival, and my attempted 'best out of waste' rarely gets his support.

So that little earthen pot, waited on my kitchen slab, for its next contribution to my household.

End of part one.

Since I have come to Mumbai, I rarely have felt the need to have cold water to drink. If at times, we consume water from the fridge, our throat sings the story for days to come. But, the scorching heat of April made us do some serious thinking to find a mid-way and we decided upon an earthen pot, 'matka' which we call. So, one was bought, and here my little angel comes into picture. At the market, to create some distraction to her manipulative demanding mind, I suggested her to let her paint the 'matka' just as she did her diwali 'diyas'.

But, reaching home, we realised that such exercise would be completely futile, as the 'matka' would regularly be washed before being filled afresh. Along with it, her painting would also be washed away. That will disappoint her and might also open a war turf.

At this point our humble cute little earthen pot came to the service. Jiya painted it. The cute pot became cuter after her imagination and our suggestions were poured onto it.

Now, comes the twist! while she was tidying up the place, in an attempt to keep it at the safe place to dry, the pot slipped from her hands and it broke into pieces.

I know you knew it from the very beginning that some thing like this is bound to happen. But this is not the end of my story, it actually takes shape and texture from this juncture.

At this point, I was in the kitchen and Ankur was on the dining table with his back towards me. And our thoughts resonated without looking at each other, to one fact, that she will be disappointed. We expected her to start crying any moment and I was gearing up myself to the task of consoling her. But my tiny, four year two months and three days old daughter kept a composed calmity to herself and even tried to collect the broken pieces.

Like good, understanding but thoughtful parents, we consoled her but then continued with what we were doing, leaving her with her pieces.

A few minutes later I felt someone's presence behind me. It was she who was standing there looking like a lost warrior. I bent down to read her face and then she said in her composed tear laden sweet voice, ' thoda sa rone ka man to kar raha hai'.

I did and said nothing besides hugging her tight. For few moments, we stayed that way, with her papa unaware of the moments spilling into past at his back.

She did cry soon but later, when I refused to switch on the TV (as per the rule that no TV while eating food) after she had toppled down the plate of mango and watermelon on the floor despite my continued reminders. Or was it her compounded frustration on her continued loss of her favourite things, I don't know. To Ankur's surprise, this event passed away without any of my verbal outbursts. Just yesterday, when she did the same to her milk, he was witness to an altogether different scene. He could not help himself but comment on the unpredictability of my anger. Little did he know that my heart was still warm with the wetness of her paints.

While she lay asleep and I type this I am telling myself the following thing:

Come tomorrow, and we will go back to D Mart and buy three 'matka kulfi', this time one for each of us.