Doraemom and her 3-yr-old’s coming of age

Is there a coming-of-age moment for a three-year-old? I think there is. Having watched Chota Bheem with my daughter of three years, the film – Doraemon and Jaadui Tapu – was on my to-do list since the day it was released and despite a 48-hour delay, the excitement continued to peak for me till I managed to keep my date with the motion picture.
It was not exactly a déjà vu fanfare drawing me to the excitement of a baccha party. The urgency of introducing my 3-yr-old daughter to one of her favourite TV characters on the big screen was a more pressing reason for three adults to toddle after her into the picture hall. 
The movie didn’t excite me any more than my daughter managing to successfully recite nursery rhymes with ease, the beginning, middle and the ending only too predictable for an adult mind groomed into the intrigues of an evolved plot. Neither did it manage to hold the attention of my daughter post-interval when she was more drawn towards other kids seating themselves in a gravity-defying act atop folded chairs, legs dangling, hands rummaging for popcorns in the paper bags and eyes riveted on the screen.
It was but, a chance comment, rather a more purposefully drawn comparison in hindsight between characters of Doraemon and our family members, by my daughter that actually had me bending over backwards in disbelief and later, pushed my lazy nerves in weaving random lines scribbled in impatience into a comprehensible deduction.
Here are the three comparisons my daughter made: My wife and her over-indulging mother is her
interpretation of the wish-granting Tom Cat from the future – Doraemon. She saw herself as the Nobita the lead character with Doraemon, which she presumably concocted out of my chiding her as "cry-baby like Nobita". And, then she silenced yours truly by a comparison with Shizuka.
Her mother is the Doraemon because she gives her “many things” even at the risk of spoiling her like the TV character, which pulls out weird gadgets to get Nobita an upper-hand in all his endeavours, even though he ends up ruing the decision. I have now nicknamed my wife as Doraemom, the giver of many things and sweet nothings. Though, I jestingly tell her that our daughter’s naive comparison may be a warning sign for her to hit the gym.
My daughter quickly aligned herself with Nobita. ‘I take things from Baba and Mumma and Dida, Dadu and Pishi…’ So, she is the taker. ‘Hain to, aar aami aalladi kanna kori... hain na baba (Yes, and don’t I fake crying to get attention). Nobita does that too. My interpretation of her stepping in the boots of Shizuka was flatly turned down. “That’s you!” She said. Shizuka? Me? Wow! Really? Now, why hadn’t I fantasized getting into the body of a Japanese girl with a coy smile who dreams about a grand bath with flower petals every time she is asked to make a wish?
But, then the kiddo had her reason. Baba frowns over any change (not to my liking in house or schedule) and Baba gets angry (Like Shizuka)! Traits of a Japanese girl? No comments. 
The simple truth that held the profound observation of a three-year-old set me thinking if her days of romancing cartoon characters are over. Probably not. But the chances of taking my daughter to be childish for her random remarks, and dismissing them with an impulsive laugh are certainly over. Wonder, only a year back, she was obsessed with Nemo! Now, it seems she has come of age. No kidding.

Managing childhood

Piyuh dressed as Araina Bose

It has been four days since my only child stepped inside a world full of strangers. We call it a school. An institution that has over the years gained societal mandate for grooming a child to the needs of this ruthless world. (Though, I have pushed myself to the point of obsession in looking for an alternative to this norm, its failures roiling my already burdened conscience for being unable to return her in full, the joy she has handed me since her arrival).
This day, a Monday like any other, holds promise for me as it does in small measure a sense of foreboding. As I open the gates of the school swamped by the noon sun, my eyes rest on the still figure of a girl with her bag slung on her tender shoulders, the impish Winnie the Pooh on its front pocket smiling at me. The maid sees me first, a glimmer of recognition flashing in her eyes. She must have told Piyuh something for the next moment, the Pooh was gone and I was lost in a pair of big Bong eyes – one of those rare treats that she has borrowed from her mother – staring back at me.
And, then I steeled myself to face the moment of reckoning, the dropping of guard and the unmasking of a façade.
My child’s venture into a school hasn’t exactly been an Alice in wonderland episode. Far from excitement, she has been constantly traumatised by the separation from her known ones whenever she finds herself forced into a curious world of adults and unknown kids. The teachers pose they know everything about the kid and they can manage its ways. I loathe both the traits.
I am unable to fathom, how for once, they can or anybody else in this world know that my daughter cannot tolerate her feet perspiring in shoes. How can they ever understand that I call her Why Baby (In English), Kyon Baby (In Hindi) and Kano Baby (In Bengali) that recognises the many whys she bombards me with everyday encounter of something new and encourages her to flatten me out with more of why each day?
The other thing I have aversion to is the term manage. Far from the magic word that managing has come to be associated with, it admits a plea screaming about a botched-up situation bereft of resources that the circumstances warrant demanding a stop-gap arrangement to tide over the moment. What if the moment stretches into unending loop of habitual arrangement?
For sometime now, we have been grooming our daughter for school. I speak of a mental make-up fashioned to meet strangers and greet them with a hello or a good morning. Then, arrived the moment of truth.
On her first day to school, she was extremely chirpy during the journey to school regaling us with her cherubic laughter and her otherworldly talks that she engages in and surprises us in retaliation to our conversations that are hard for her to comprehend. But, the moment we landed at the school, she was a different person, a mouse caught in a trap. The feeling, as I look back, was mutual.
We were leaving her in care of an adult, whom we met for the first time. While our daughter was fighting for her freedom from the clutches of her teacher, the only thing that crossed our minds in that moment of helplessness was to tell more about our kid to her mentor so she could play mumma and baba to her. Then the maid dragged her away. I turned around and walked out of the school never looking back, ignoring her desperate cries that were driving a dagger through my cursing heart. My wife stayed put for sometime before following me out. She got into the car. I revived the engine to life. Her sobs were drowned in the beastly drone.
The first three days I returned for her, my daughter would rush towards me like a maniac on suicidal mission. Tears would stretch down her cheeks in deep rivulets as she would gasp in incoherence about the torture we subjected her to. Her tired eyes would have just one question: How could you? Every time I would come back for her she would be there by her teacher, standing, with her bag on her back and sipper in hand refusing to let go of them (In an unknown world, I now believe, these were the only things that she could relate to).
Today, as I steeled myself again for her guard to come down, she surprised me with a calm repose. She was not running towards me. Just walking languidly in easy strides. She wasn’t crying. Her eyes were riveted on me, but not watery.  The rivulets on her cheeks that had become a part of her facial landscape had dried up, the eyes holding back the water that fed them. Yet, she had her bag on her shoulders refusing to let go of the emotional support the entire time she was in school. As I drove with her I was left wondering if she had truly matured or just managed the situation to our mutual benefit.