A Love Story

How do you know you are different from your mother? When you use the word 'love' with your daughter, and, not just in the signing off address on a card, you sit and you tell her what it is. My daughter, C, as we know her, is a year older. How I wish she were taller instead. As much as she understands the feelings of jealousy very well, she is generous too. She belongs to an unreal world where her set of upbringing-values differ much from mine. C lives with a single mad woman she calls Mom and a golden Labrador (with whom her mom is still not very comfortable around being alone with) called Tucker, or, Tucks for short. 

I would like to believe she ain't spoilt yet, which, unfortunately, is wrong. Her various well-wishers and grans and fans shower cuddly-gooey words at her and save her skin from me, on the rare occasion that I am upset with her. No, homework unfinished, or attended to, is hardly my concern. It is rather always some strange lineage of madness that she would exhibit, which scares me -- she would accidentally keep books in the fridge, and deliberately 'forget' her tiffin box in the shoe rack. C would demand a story sitting on my back, and tickle me till I wiggle out one, and just as I would be embarking on a fantastic plot, she would snore off softly, posture in a loving mess. She knows she has to keep a little bit of discipline on Saturday mornings when Momie is at the laptop station, yet her excited squeals, at having successfully managed to splash a mug full of ice-cold water on (very) poor, old Tucks, is capable of stirring up a storm.

Thus, different from our mothers, when in spite of all such silly events worth sillier reprimands, C gets none. We spoke on 'love' last night, I asked her actually. Here is an extract from our conversation:

'C! Please calm down.' C was jumping from the commode with its top down. You can imagine the echo like victory howls rushing in from the bathroom. Finally, I had to grasp her hands together behind her, pull her to me, switch off the light and show her my You Don't Wanna Mess With Me Now expression, and ask her to finish her sad and cold cup of neglected Bournvita. She looked hurt. I felt guilty. The bloody deadlines were getting on to me. I could have handled this madness gently! She finished her drink, looked quite miserable and went off to sleep, next to me. I decided to call it a night too and slipped in. Pulling her to me, I said, 'I love you, idiotbum.'

Well, one need not go on to elaborate on how a child's smile can melt one's heart. The moment C did that, not only did she do that, she also regained her madness from the bathroom. 'How much you love me, Momie?' Her tiny teeth are rice-pearl like.

'Um, more than Tucks. Why?'

'More than coffee and whooo-iss-key?' she continued. I hadn't a clue where this was heading.

'Yes, slightly more. Why?'

'More than laptop?' as she counted on her fingers.

She certainly meant my writing, but I loved how she asked that precisely. 'Yes.' Pause. 'Why?' No answer. Guessing she was satisfied for the night, I decided to nag her now. 'What did you count, C? Marks? How much did I get?' I must have sounded so lame. 'Please tell me!' Giving up, I tried another question, 'what is love, C?'

Then she turned to face me and giggled. I was really caught in the suspense. 'Momie, when I shampoo with Dove, it is love.'

'What?' What does that even suppose to mean?

'Yes Mom. Now sleep. Tomorrow is Sunday, and you will shampoo with Dove. Love. Hahahahahahahahaha. Dove-Love. Love-Dove.'

'Good night, C.'

What that meant, I still have no idea. I will never have. Except that love could actually mean that -- divine meaninglessness.

PS: She has a calling either in poetry or in advertising. Neither of us shampoo with Dove by the way.