Grandpa’s little girl in the park
OUT of the chiaroscuro unfolding at dawn — the pink light amid the park’s dappled foliage — emerges a delightful duo that makes my day. I stand under a gulmohar tree, leaning on the green wrought-iron boundary railings as I observe the unusual pair. He is a white-bearded grandpa with kind, smiling eyes, dressed in shorts and tees. On his shoulders sits his angelic grandchild, a beautiful cherub with big, bright eyes and lovably chubby cheeks. She sits snugly, her little legs astride his broad shoulders. Sometimes, she tugs at his beard with her little fingers to remind him to walk on and not dawdle while exchanging ‘good morning’ greetings.
‘She weighs nine kilos,’ says her proud grandpa. ‘She will be nine months old soon,’ he adds. ‘She loves her dadi too, but lords it over her dadu with her baba-baba prattle for her daily kathi ride. She speaks in her own language, but we understand her when she whispers sweetly. She is our life, our bundle of joy, a gift from rabb (God). We are truly blessed, sir.’
‘When she smiles,’ he continues without a pause, ‘phul khirde ne’ (flowers bloom)’, reminding me of Shiv Kumar Batalvi’s poetry. ‘The heavens open up to greet us when she wakes up, tugging at dadu and dadi, between whom she sleeps in a baby blanket. She points to the sun’s first rays as they slip past the chinks in the drawn curtains to wake her up. She does not cry, sir,’ says her doting grandpa.
He tells me that the child smiles when her dadi dresses her in bright embroidered smocking frocks. She is ready in no time. Sporting a slender silver kada and little silver payals, she finishes her meal to be hoisted on dadu’s broad shoulders for her morning trip to the park. There, she surveys her delightful pastel world from a commanding position.
‘Can I get her a bar of chocolate or a Barbie doll just like her?’ I ask her grandfather each time our paths cross. Our occasional meetings keep me in touch with grandpa and his little princess. His eyes twinkle: ‘There will be time for that, sir; let her grow her milk teeth first. This is her dadi’s order, and you know that a woman’s writ is ironclad.’ I smile like a loser. The princess blesses me with her smile — the first-ever for another grandpa. I am instantly transported to a sepia-tinted world I had forgotten all about.
