"Mummy, readtimi. Peas." My mental compiler swung into action and absorbed the sentence, spitting out its translation: "Mummy, read to me. Please." The 'please' made me pause. I looked at the person who had stopped my mental tape that started playing the minute I entered the house: start the rice, peel potatoes, get lunch boxes from the car or you will forget, sit the cell phone in its cradle, do it NOW or you will surely forget, start... Reaching a little above my knees, silky hair tousled and with a book in hand, he returned my gaze of exasperation with one of expectation. Of course, in his mind mummy had no better thing to do except read to him. I surveyed my surroundings. I had entered the house only an hour ago after picking up my son from the day care. There were my things strewn by the door -- my bag, laptop and keys, along with Neil's lunchbox and artwork. There were signs of the snack he had eaten -- "Awant cookie" -- on his chin and the table. And there were spices, half-cut vegetables and other essentials on the countertop because I was planning to cook enough to see me through the next day too. The paneer was merrily burning to a cinder, and I rescued it from a charred death by turning off the gas. Then I turned to face my three-year-old. I sat down to look him in the eye. "Mummy is cooking, shona," I told him. "I need a few minutes." But I knew it would be good hour before I finished what I had started. I looked at the book in his hand. It was The Lion King. Maybe, I thought, dinner could wait. "Okay, mummy will read. Only for a little while, then she has to do other stuff, okay?" He grabbed my hand and led me outside. We sat down. Bending over the book, I read each word aloud. Neil repeated them after me. His pleasure, I realised, was not in reading the book as much as the companionship. Simba had just started to disobey King Mufasa ["Musafa." "No, Neil, MuFAsa." "MuSAfa." "Okay, whatever."] when a drone sounded overhead. "Aplane, mummy!" We both looked up at the silver streak against the pink sky. It was a beautiful sight, as the sky had turned amber near the hills and the sun had disappeared. "And mummy look, bug!" Down at my feet a green creepy-crawly was lazily traversing a blade of grass. As I shivered in disgust, Neil bent down to examine it. "Not a bug, a caterpillar," I corrected automatically. "Cattapilla". "Neil, let's go for a walk." He looked at me amazed. Mummy suggesting a walk on a weekday evening was an event to note; even the three-year-old recognised it for what it was. "Let's go, mummy!" We set off. As soon as we turned from our gate, I realised Neil had me by the knees. "Let go, Neil, what--" Then I saw the dog and its owner. "Doggie," came a scared voice from behind. The owner smiled. "What a darling boy," she said, as I oohed over her dog. Neil was staring in fright. We carried on, overtaking others, a baby in a pram, some older folks who we chatted with. All the while I was thinking, "These people do it everyday? How do they get the time?" After an hour we returned to find my husband home. He had not bothered to question the mess in the kitchen, but had taken over the task I had left unfinished. Before he asked, Neil with his excited chatter made the matter clear. He had had a super evening. I went to bed thoughtful. The next day my cell phone died in the middle of an important conversation with a business associate. I remembered I hadn't charged it the previous night. Oh well, never mind. It had been an evening well spent. The first of many such evenings, I vowed. Now Sangeeta's evenings are reserved for Neil. Illustration: Uttam Ghosh Tell us what you think of this diary Be part of an exciting venture! Write a Diary!
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