My Baby Brother.

I just mentioned to my colleague that i was born intelligent and then education ruined me!!!!! But noo she would'nt believe me so i've decided to publish an excerpt from my diary when i was 1 year old some time in the 7o's on November 1st,the day when my brother was born.

Excerpts from Rishi's Diary

November 1st........


"Ba Ba illi(come here) Papa nodu….thamma papa…..Look at the baby he’s ur brother!"
I have yet to understand why my dad has to resort to such childish phrases whenever he talks to me. Perhaps I should get him a dictionary. But not now, since I actually want to see what all the fuss is about. I allow him to lift me up to the level of the hospital maternity ward bed. Then I see him.
"Wow! he's OLD!"
My dad is very pleased. Till he notices the object of my attentions.
"No silly, that's the Doctor."
"Oh."
I redirect my gaze to a spidery form of flesh next to my mom in a cot. This, I am repeatedly informed, is my little brother. My kith and kin. My flesh and blood. My cue to stay vegetarian.
"Isn't he great?"
My dad is quite excited. This however does not seem to be a hereditary characteristic. Unless excitement shares the same genes as shock. Hope my medical insurance covers psychiatric treatment for trauma.
"You looked just like that, you know."
My father's mind is occupied with memories. Mine is occupied with more forward-looking thoughts, like how much it costs to begin litigation for slander. Is that creature --- the baby this time --- even human? Legs: two --- check. Arms: two --- check. Fingers: it's hiding them --- question mark. Feathers: none --- check. Scales: none --- check. Or maybe scales grow later. Whatever. I'll assume it's human.
"How do you know it's a boy, dad?"
I should remember to ask this question more often. For Dad is dragging me to the neighborhood shop, asking me if I want chocolate or ice-cream. All thoughts of ugly brothers vanish with the bribe.
Till a couple of days later. Grandma has organized a huge feast in honour of the new arrival. Funny, I don't remember any such event for me. I ask mum about it. She laughs and says I was too young to remember.
Too young --- again! I'm always too young --- too young to play cricket on the road, to play with the neighborhood mad dog, to vote ... I bet I'll always be too young. And suddenly I'll find myself like grandma over there in the corner, too old for anything bar sleeping and staying at home.
I turn from her ancient silent form to its opposite --- the baby. My dad and a friend are peering into his crib. Now I know adults are crazy, but they surpass even their own high standards when babies are around. I certainly did not know that words like 'eeeeeeeeiiiiiiiii cheeeeee kalla ' and 'ga-ga-ga' had made it into Chambers. But grown-ups apparently know no other phrases when talking to babies. No wonder this mite is yelling the house down. I consider doing something sane, like discussing baby politics with him. Yes. He'd like that.
But before I get to the cot, a herd of rampaging aunties charges in.
"Oh look, he's got his father's eyes~"
"And his mother's nose."
"And his grandmother’s ears"
Unless something drastic has happened in the last twenty-three minutes since I last saw the nameless one, the only thing clear about him is that he's got a Gumma's voice. And in any case, his eyes are constantly shut, his nose is quite flat and ears are hidden with a stupid woollen cap. These aunties must have powers beyond those of mere mortals.
I watch them in horrified fascination. Then amusement. Then disappointment when none of them mention that he's got his brother's hairs or right eyebrow.
A tap on my shoulder whirls me around. It's sunil. In other words it's our neighbours kid. he's bored. I'm bored. We click. We go outside to discuss world affairs. Our world, mind you.
"So did the stork come and leave him?"
"Don't be silly. That's only in cartoons."
"I don't believe you."
"Okay then. he couldn't have come by stork because their trade union is on strike. Something about having to deliver too many crying babies."
I leave it unsaid that sunil was probably one of them. The dig makes him believe me. They say he's a pessimist, which I think means he still pisses in bed. I press the advantage.
"he came by post actually."
"Did you have to pay the postman??"
I am taken aback. I was expecting some sort of resistance here, not a new definition of the word 'sucker'.
"You think I ordered him?"
Suddenly a call for two little kids to come and get their chocolates reaches us. Sunil is obviously not on a diet and promptly vanishes. That's when I remember that I wasn't on a diet either.