Little packet of trouble
I smile at my neighbour's two-year-old thinking she will be a stressbuster. All she does is add to my miseries
Has it ever happened to you? You come back from work late in the evening, somehow drag yourself up the four flights of stairs since the lift refuses to cooperate, and then… and then you catch a glimpse of your neighbour’s two-year-old. She is a sweet little doll, really, and she turns to you with the most adorable look in her beady eyes and giggles like a brook suddenly. Her gurgling laughter hits you like a refreshing gust of breeze and, even after the grey day you’ve had at office, you manage a tired smile. “Helloooo chweetheart,” you croon with babytalk.
And that is it. You have invited your own nemesis, with a red carpet welcome. The baby looks at you and holds her arms out. What do you do? Ignore her? Of course not! I mean, you can’t. There’s no escape, because her mother is also looking at you and saying, “Oh, she is so fond of you! You looove your auntie, no baby? You want to go with auntie?” By this time, the warning bells have started jangling in my head. I can sense rapid signals of confusion like an erratic seismograph shooting through my head. While I grope in the deep recesses of my mind to find a plausible excuse, my husband comes and calls. “Hey princess (don’t mistake it, the loving address is not meant for me, but for the baby). Come with us.” My last hope is that she will not be in the mood to leave her mum, but it looks like she is as tired of her mother as the mother is of her.
The mother almost pushes her towards us. "Go baby. Uncle and auntie are calling you so lovingly." Whatever second thoughts Guddi (that's "princess's" real name) may be having melt into oblivion, and she walks towards us in her yet-to-be-steady steps. Shoulders slouching, I follow her inside our apartment.
Her being there would be fine, only if it is just being there. But it’s not. I have to cook – as in, cut vegetables, ready the meat, prepare the spices and then cook. But she drags me out and almost starts sobbing if I ignore her, which I can’t risk. Her mother will instantly spread stories about how I tortured her child around the apartment complex. I sit by her as she bores me with her vaccination card and some old bills, which I have no idea why she is carrying in her toy pouch.
There’s a Hindi movie showing on TV. I change the channel to a news programme and she screams her lungs out. Then, she sits on the remote with the excruciatingly painful Sunny Deol movie on. At my wit’s, and patience’s, end, I have a brainwave. I knock on my neighbour’s door and ask her, politely, and as if I am overtly concerned about Guddi, “Isn’t it past her dinner time? Poor thing, she must be feeling sleepy and tired. Should I bring her over?”
Promptly comes the mother’s reply, “Little Guddi, will you like to eat with auntie? Will you feel bad if I bring you home now? Do you want to stay a little longer with uncle and auntie?” To which questions Guddi keeps nodding a ‘yes’, vigorously. I stand there, flummoxed, and stranded with a two-year-old who’s more than a handful, and who’s now tugging at my skirt, shouting, “Auntieeeeee, Guddi eating!”
