In Which Vicky Is Left Speechless. Again.

Vicky admires his latest acquisition -- a Burrago scale model of a Mercedes-Benz 300 SLR MM 1955.

"Oh no," says he, "the gullwing doors don't open up that much."

"Hmm" say I.

"The steering doesn't work properly," says he.

"These Italians clearly don't know how to design cars," say I.

"!!!" says he.

...

I get into bed and catch him reading some kind of trash by our night light (the streetlamp outside our bedroom window.)

"What is that you're reading?" say I, "One of my trashy Mills'n'Boons?"

"Certainly not," says he with withering scorn.

"Well, that was the only stuff that was there on the bed." note I.

His response is to show me the cover of his Irving Wallace.

"Same thing," say I.

"!!!" says he.

Not Meant to Be Mothers

Rahul has begun cheeking us back these days, telling me to do the chore I assigned to him, a far cry from the days when I melted into a disgusting puddle on the floor because he brought me water.

As always, I firmly support Calvin's mum. Click to enlarge.

We were on a BREAK!

That was Ross, of course.

Looks like I'm on one now. Don't feel like blogging. Be back when I do.

Dirt. And Smutty Thoughts

Rahul spent a week with my parents in Madras last year without Vicky or me. I was aghast when Baba told me that one of his favourite activities in the Gymkhana Club playground was to pour the sand over his own silly head. I didn’t see what my folks found so hilarious about it.

But, you know, it’s just sand. It’ll wash off or dust off. Even if he brings some into his bed, it can be brushed off.

If there is one thing I would change about my parenting, it would be this – I want to let him touch things and explore them more than I can actually bear to let him do. Every so often I let him mess around with more than before but I’m quite as likely to get annoyed at the mess.

I spent some time today at Free Range Kids and this article struck a chord. Also, all those guys talking about how inhibited they feel these days. I had a talk with Vicky about this once. Here where we live people are far less inhibited and in this case I was the one to tell him to not instantly rush to help out an unknown little girl. I've seen ayahs and mothers look at him askance because he helped a little girl off a merry-go-round and played with some young children whom he didn't know, at a party. When he’s with Rahul or me there’s no problem, of course, but he’s a dad with a young kid and a helpful chap in general. The last thing he needs is a paranoid parent hauling him over the coals for it.

In Which Even Vicky Is Left Speechless

V: Tumi bondhuderke bolo je tumi doodhwala'r moton botol niye jao ar ora [censored] moton botol niye jae.
R: Ami "doodh-kala" na... Ami doodh na...!
V: O, tumi "doodh-kola" nawo? Toh tumi ki?
R: Ami shudhu Sharab-i Niyogy.
V: !!!

Translation

V: You tell your friends that you carry your bottle like the doodhwala (milkman) while they carry theirs like [censored -- Vicky ought to be ashamed of himself, really]
R: I'm not a "doodh-kala" ("milk-banana")... I'm not a milk...!
V: Oh, so you're not a "doodh-kola"? So what are you, then?
V: I'm only Sharab-i (Alcoholic) Niyogy.
V: !!!

On Principle

At ten o' clock this morning I threw a hissy fit because Vicky's new insurance policy listed his nominee as 'Sunayana Roy Niyogy'.

My hissy fit was not because I object to being called Sunayana Niyogy, because I don't. Lots of people address me as Mrs. Niyogy or even Mrs. Soubhik Niyogy and I quite enjoy it. But since I have chosen to retain my maiden name only (I don't like the rhythm of 'Roy Niyogy') I make it a point to call myself only Sunayana Roy on all official documents. Especially in insurance matters, where I've had a claim dismissed on a lie (their lie, not mine), where I recognise the importance of what might seem like a minor aberration.

So I was mighty pissed at the officiousness of the agent who had added the Niyogy to my name despite us giving him a piece of paper with our names written down the way we wanted them. And because Vicky was stupid enough to tell me it wasn't such a big deal, I took it all out on him. This from a man who has objected to being addressed as Mr. Roy, mind you.

So anyway, there was my hissy fit and I went to work simmering. Calmed down over the course of the day -- the agent has promised to rectify the name -- and I came home.

At ten o' clock this evening I was trying to teach Pintsize some alphabets. So R for 'Ra-gul', P for Phuli, L for Lattu, G for Giga... N for Niyogy. I mentioned that he was a Niyogy, as was his father and grandmother. And he consolingly hugged me and said I was one too. And I peacefully agreed and mentally laughed over my hissy fit twelve hours earlier.