Kid Contexts - 1

Rajiv walked home. It had been a horrible day at school. His best friend hadn't turned up and he got badly bullied by Akash. All the kids in that stupid Akash's gang had ganged up against Rajiv and made the lunch recess miserable.

How he hated Akash!

Today, he'd been alone in class when Akash kicked him. Then each boy in that s group had hit him on his back. Rajiv's eyes stung at the memory of the day. The new class teacher had come in time to stop Rajiv when he hit Akash back. She didn't listen to either of the boys and made them both stay outside class.

In the maths period, Akash flung Rajiv's book to the ground and promised to spit on him after class was over. Rajiv let the book stay on the floor and told his Maths teacher what had happened. "Learn to fight your own battles, my boy," she had replied with a sagely smile.

So, Rajiv turned and slapped Akash straight on the face. He watched with satisfaction as Akash's eyes bulged for a moment and then cringed with tears. The Maths teacher shouted at Rajiv and took him straight to the Principal. Now he and Akash had to call their parents to school.

Rajiv knew what this meant. He didn't want to tell his mother what had happened because he was sure she would blame him and side with Akash. He could try talking to his father but Papa would be home late at night. Better not to go to school, he decided.

His mother opened the door with a smile and let him in. She called him for food and they both sat in front of the television to eat. Rajiv changed from her serial to his Nick channel and they had a fight about the channel before Rajiv stomped out of the room leaving his plate half-empty.

Mother: You are always trying to get your cartoon channel. Are you a small child to watch cartoons?
Rajiv (through his tears) : I was trying to see Nikelodeon.
Mother: Eat your food fully and eat it now.
Rajiv: No, I don't want your stupid food.
Mother: Come on, eat your food before I hit you and make you eat.
Rajiv: I don't want your stupid food.
Mother: Come on, now or...
Rajiv: (cringes as his mother lifts her hand)
Mother: You disobey your mother? she slaps him.
Rajiv: (cries openly) Will you disobey your mother? slaps him again.
Mother: slaps him two more times to make a point

He eats his food in tears and avoids looking at his mother. She stands over his plate, arms akimbo. At this point, he decides, I am not going to come home from tomorrow. I will go away from here like I am going to school and never, never, ever return.

Growing up with Janmashtami

Janmashtami is round the corner and it’s the time for children to be told stories about Baby Krishna’s mischief. And they will giggle, knowing they were just as lovable and loved, when they were babies.

Here is one of the typical things that the butter-loving child would do:

 

Photo credit: festivalsasia.in

Krishna was born at midnight, so preparations would begin the afternoon before. I remember returning from school as a child to see a big kolam drying in front of our house. Large floral motifs in bold strokes of pure white would be ready to appease my cranky eye. On Gokulashtami, the point of interest went beyond the beauty of the design, it was the tiny feet drawn at the door that awaited my arrival. Something like this:

photo credit: http://elaichii.blogspot.in

I would ring the doorbell with a surge of excitement and my mother would appear with a big smile, ‘My Krishna has come.’ 

Her reasoning for Janmashtami was this, it is a celebration for children. No parent expects a real Krishna to appear at the door, their children’s smiles are enough for them. It is a labour of maternal love, done willingly, hopeful for a bright smile in return.

The annual ritual continued for a while.  At some point, the feet designs stopped, the busy hue at the time of year reduced. I didn’t notice. I just didn’t notice.

I must have been a teenager when I asked her, ‘You stopped making those tiny feet, why?’

She replied simply, ‘You grew up.’She had opened the door, I hadn’t noticed her or the larger design or the feet as I rushed in and rushed out for some urgency, for sure. And she knew that a phase was past. Maybe her heart broke a little, she didn’t say. 

Then I had a kid. My schedule was busy and I declined most religious rituals. But in a throwback to times past, on this day I would make floor designs of baby feet, painstakingly leading them to the designated god center. My son would ring the doorbell and I would open the door with a smile as I saw his eyes light up at the feet drawn just for him. He graduated from putting his feet into the wet design to trying to help me make the drawing, to following the feet without messing the design.

We would discuss the stories around Krishna and he would watch as I made the ‘vella payasam’ (sweetened rice), my shortcut culinary offering since I was not inclined to the more demanding traditional foods. Besides, my son liked ‘vella payasam' and that was enough for me.

But I wanted insurance, so I told him, ‘When you lose interest, tell me. I’ll stop taking the extra effort to make these ‘kolams’.’

He agreed. But children forget, and one day he entered the house with barely a glance at the fruit of my effort and certainly no smile. He watched television, ate something and hurried off to play. Later, we had a few free moments but the innocent glee was missing. The interest was gone.

And I knew a phase of childhood was gone forever. My heart broke a little. I didn’t say.