Taare zameen par

What I wrote yesterday immediately after watching Aamir Khan’s Taare zameen par was emotionally garbled. After several attempts at writing myself into a semblance of balance I gave up in disgust. I hoped I would be more lucid and less churned up after an entire normal day and night. But it seems that the hangover will not abate so easily.

Flower child

There is this kid who brings my mother flowers every Wednesday. He has been coming for about three years now; he used to accompany his parents earlier, now he comes all alone. I don’t think he can be above ten. He comes with a pre-packed polythene carry bag in which are the assortion of flowers he has decided my mother should have that week. My mother and he seem to have some sort of understanding and she is quite happy to let him have the decision. She and he invariably find much to talk about. She knows, I think, most of what is most important to him. She usually does of most people.
He is really a very engaging child; a bit taciturn, very conscientious, and has such a sweet air of duteous self-importance, that I am always tempted to tease him out of it. He came today when we were having tea; he rang the doorbell and called out. He sounded so delightful that I spontaneously uttered some cooing noises that must revolt any self-respecting ten year old, leave alone this rather superior one. To make matters worse I had a Bourbon chocolate biscuit in my hand which I had just been about to surrender to. Naturally I offered it to him, naturally he refused. So how to press him and save his pride? The big guns were called in and duly had their effect. He wasn’t to say he never ate biscuits?! Oh! So he only doesn’t when people offer it to him? Did he always maaro so much style? And finally the biscuit was popped into his pocket. He grunted something about looking silly on the roads and trotted off.
During the monsoon this year (we had a considerable one) we were a bit worried for him. He used to come in soaked to the skin each time with an ineffectual plastic cover draped over his head around his ears. He looked a little pathetic and determined not to show it. He said quite prosaically that he could not afford a raincoat and an umbrella was a nuisance. I hoped his constitution was as resilient as his spirit and let it pass. In some cases sympathy is always an insult.
But today after our silly tussle over the refused biscuit, I was stupidly choked. There is such a thing as too much pride, and it is invariably born of necessity. A child should not need it.