Playmate

It was the same, but no longer august and austere meeting that I had a scheduled evening at. The moment I put off my slippers, I smiled. A three-four year old's bright blue rubber shoe was impatiently put out, one on top of the other. That must be Chhuti. Eagerly, I went in and scanned the smiles to land on her very shy eyes, spooned in her mom's lap. I swam my way across the pool of people and settled down next to her. She was in a pretty pink frock, a dull pink set immediately to light with her movements.

How often have I mentioned that Chhuti reminds me of me? Uptight she appears, like a fist, not allowing the first word in a dialogue to escape, even though immensely capable of it. And thus there pervades this coiled silence between us. After the initial discomfort, Chhuti made the first move, a look that lingered into an indecisive smile. I smiled back thinking what kind of an impossible adult I am. With that response, Chhuti transformed, blossomed. The demure appearance, now a restless one, here's what followed:

Chhuti: The similar fishing into her mother's purse began. Out came a pen, and her voice -- today, a little louder and higher in pitch than on earlier days. "Draw rain."

The gathering became pleasantly aware of the two of us taking off for the evening. And I was kind of taken aback with the demand.

Me: "I can't -- "

Chhuti: "Haaaahaaa. Hahaha. You only draw flower. I tell how to do rain."

Me: "OK boss." And passed the designated notebook to her.

As she immersed in the previous scribbles, her mother too took notice and said, "These are her doing, right?"

I smiled and tried a cloud before giving her the copy, some hurriedly done thick, teardroppy raindrops which apparently did not please Chhuti. She fought for her share of white space with her bite-size palms and once she had it, took the entire copy, got off the bed for a casual, unmindful stroll among the others. Oh, how she is cuddled by everyone. She returned to me with a packet (now we know it wasn't unmindful after all!), opened it, looked inside and passed me a very, very mischievous smile, something which possibly said (in a very, very teasing tone), "You do not know what is inside." Instead,

Chhuti: "You play ring-aa ring-aa? You dance?"

Me: "Yes. No."

Chhuti: "Why no dance? I dance." Here she valiantly flashes her winner smile.

Me: Shrug, and an attempt to find a reason more convincing than a "I-dunno."

Chhuti: "You have school?"

I assumed she was inquiring about the next day, Mahalaya, A holiday.

Me: "No!" Quite a resounding happy 'no' at that.

Chhuti: Still smiling, "Then dance!"

Me: Big-eyed and groping for the meaning in her sequence of conversation, I murmured, "How?"

Chhuti: "Oho, tell what in packet?"

Me: "How would I know, Chhuti?"

Much obviously used to my range of negatives as replies by now, she carried on, "My Raincoat!"

God, the pride in her tone! The command of ownership - undeniable. She took it out and in that august, air-conditioned gathering, wore it. Her mother gave up trying to signal her not to, and some people could not help but laugh out. It was an authoritative show of her see-through raincoat, enveloping her pretty pink frock.

As I gestured a benign "give me", she assertively stamped a "No!"

Chhuti: "You have pen, draw rain. I dance in raincoat."

Alrighty, OK, I think I get it, my love. Your raincoat versus my pen. You win. Chhuti sits in her raincoat, as she too gathers that I have got a hang of her victory over me and shades my thick teardroppy raindrops in the notebook industriously. It is here I instigate her, even more mischief down my skin:

"Chhuti, draw raindrop on raincoat."

She is arrested. Amused. She is super pleased and though she does not show it, I know she wants to get on with it right away. Two-one. I win.

Chhuti: "You do. My pen." Generously, she offers me her mother's pen. I pull her knee and scribble a cloud on her kneecap and on her elbow, another. We are both smiling. Playing. 

Playmates we had become, and though staining the sanctity of the gathering, no one complained. With her mother's permission and Chhuti's supervision, each raindrop on her raincoat was now playful. She resembled some tiny Egyptian Empress, glowing over her newly acquired territory. The appeal of being amazed sat like a halo on her.

My phone rang and the call meant I had to leave. Chhuti understood and for the first time, shedding her poised air began nagging her mother to leave too. I tried telling her I would return, but I know she felt the lack of conviction in my voice. I stared helplessly at her, ruthlessly disturbing the ceremonious occasion. Her mother gave in and as Chhuti slipped on her bright blue rubber shoes, and insisted on not opening her raincoat, she, again for the first time, began conversing with me in a normal, non-hushed tone. It is the sweet sound of a waterfall, not too high. Free-flowing, fluent.

Chhuti: "Will you go my house? Will you come my school?" And a series of such questions went on to complete the length of the lane. I diligently answered each, truthfully. As we parted on the main road, Chhuti asked after my Bye-bye was delivered, "Will you play everyday?"

She made me sad, that bundle of joy. Her earnestness is infectious and I do not wish to lie to her or break her heart. I am not an overtly touchy person, yet I bent and silently hugged her to which she fitted like a jigsaw. She knew my answer. As she plopped away with her mother I saw her animatedly show off the raindrops on her raincoat. 

Chhuti begins to end, but the unadulterated joy of Chhuti stays on.