I should have written this earlier, having realised to my
surprise and disappointment that there’s no breathing space in the mellowing of
a 4-year-old’s mind. A few months back, when my daughter had just started
understanding numbers, she devised an ingenious mechanism of defining the
superlative.
On a balmy summer noon, the father-daughter duo was
returning from the school. As a habit, we made a stop on our way home at the
bakery. The school is a mile away from home and the bakery has become a
notional midway for both of us to pick our favourites – a can of coke for me,
and everything else for the Sweet Tooth.
On this day, the hereditary doggedness of the Bose family
came alive in her and despite my many refusals and public rebuke, she insisted
on having chocolate with candy, arguing the latter would be a gift for the
school teacher, which obviously was a red herring at best.
My reluctance was superseded by some unforeseen pang of
admiration for the little girl standing at the counter trying to balance
herself on her dainty heels to steal a view of the candy-mix spread out in the
showcase resting next to the cash counter. She had her way, eventually. “This
one,” she said pointing to a pink candy. I picked two for her. This time it was
the kid’s turn to be surprised.
On our way out, as she hopped like a bunny, her shoelaces
matching the rise and fall of her petite frame on the staircase, I asked if she
was happy. “Yes,” was the reply, with a giggle for a background score. She
didn’t stop and navigated her way through the un-assorted pileup of vehicles
outside the bakery. I asked again, “How much?” She stopped in her tracks. The
bunny went quiet. The shoe laces dozed off. I must have pressed the power
button somewhere on this animated doll in motion. “I am 100 happy!” she said. I
asked, “What?” “Arre (Oh!) 100 as in
1 to 100, do you not understand,” she said switching back to the happy bunny
mode.
The numeric classification of an emotion was a first for me.
In hindsight, it was the most simple and effective means of driving home a
point by a kid who has not yet known to deceive with an emotional masquerade. The
number 100 became the superlative for her as it signified the end of the
mathematical universe to her. It was supreme; the best and she just put it to
amazing use outside her school workbook.
Ever since, she has been merrily quantifying her emotions
for us to know the intensity of her feelings. One Sunday night, she pulled her
fluorescent red chair underneath the switchboard. With an instinctive gait she
balanced herself on the chair to switch off the fan, a feat she pulls off
without glitch. From the bed where my eyes followed the crashing sound and the
thud thereafter, I could see my daughter in pain. She was holding back her
tears as she continued to pleat her skirt in place. She quietly lifted the
chair and replaced it in its place.
Tears rolled down her moist eyes when she saw my arms
stretched out for her. She sobbed and she sobbed some more trying to catch her
breath in between. I asked her if she was in pain. She pointed to her calf
bone, which was peeled of its skin on one side. Does it hurt much? I asked.
“Only 10,” she said.
It all came full circle yesterday when my kid came running to me and asked me for money
out of the blue. She generally picks the loose change in my car and collects
them in a gullak (piggy bank). Her
idea of purchase is based on the denomination of a single rupee. One rupee can
buy her a candy, a cake, a pair of shorts and why, even an airplane! So for ten
rupees, she can buy ten things.
Since I am used to her collection of coins, I picked out a
ten rupee note from my pocket – I am impatient with the wallet, so avoid using one – and handed it over
to her. She checked out the number 10 on the note, ran out of the room and
returned it to me saying, she wanted “big money”. Intrigued by her response, I
took out a 100-rupee note and handed it over to her. “This is the big one,” I
showed her the 100 inscribed on the note. She dashed out of the room and I
followed her out to check what she was upto and found her taking instructions
from her mom.
Expectedly, she came back, returned the note to me and asked
if there was a bigger money than this? I asked how much was she thinking? Her
puzzled look bore through me and I showed her a 500-rupee note. She checked it
out and asked how big it was. “Worth five hundreds,” I replied and immediately
regretted my words. She was already running to her mother.
I had just altered her superlative universe and shown her
the money.
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