It was pleasantly bright and slightly warmer than usual in Coonoor on 6^th May 1982. An unsuspecting, coy and simple young girl was going to take a step that would change her comfortable, cosy life forever. Her beautiful thick, black hair flowed below her waist and a friend braided it for her with fresh, fragrant mogra flowers. There was a tangible knot in her stomach. She didn’t even know the man she was going to wed today. She just knew she felt an unusual peace about what she was doing. She came out of her house fully dressed and looked at her father’s face. He looked pleased and smiled at her. He had raised his oldest daughter well. She trusted him and he was proud of her. She took one last look at the smiling flowers in her garden and left for the church with her family.

Waiting at the end of the altar for her was this strange man she hardly knew. He was thin, dark and good looking. He had a thick moustache and a carefree vibe about him. He was from Bombay and she was to travel back with him to this massive city she had only heard tall tales about. The thought petrified her but when she saw him smile at her, she knew she was going to be okay. They said their vows and pledged to be with each other for better and for worse.

That’s not the end. That wasn’t a love story. That was just a STORY. What followed for the next thirty-seven years is LOVE.

He gave up drinking alcohol and slowly gave up smoking too. For her, he was willing to change. What didn’t change though was how he made her laugh every day. He made up songs about things that she worried about. He worked hard to make sure he could protect and support her. He took her for long walks in the evenings and bought her trinklets from roadside shops.

She happily made his tiny 200 sq. ft. room into a beautiful home. She made curtains out of old sarees, made wallpaper with magazine covers, sewed frills onto cushion covers, and filled her home with flowers. She was the queen of DIY when that term didn’t even exist. She made friends with neighbours and learned to make pleasantries with them in Hindi. She’d wait for him to come back from work. He was her ONLY friend.

They didn’t have much material wealth and, on some days, they had nothing. But even on those days, they had God and each other and that was enough.

Together they couldn’t wait to have a family and not before long, they had their first child, a daughter and few years later, a son. They looked at their children and couldn’t believe how they were so much like them. They didn’t have elaborate parenting journals to fall back on or the internet to browse when they had challenges. They just winged it.

She taught her children to read. She taught them to be kind. She made her little home a haven for them. She smacked them when they got on her nerves, which was quite often. She’d discipline them but also write little notes to them telling them she loved them. She poured Rasna into ice trays to make flavoured ice cubes for them. She told them stories from the Bible each night and taught them how to pray. They wouldn’t always be this close to her, she knew. But she spent every ounce of energy doing special things for them.

He came home each evening to his children and never once let them see the fatigue from his toil. He tickled them, played with them and made them laugh till they cried. He took them to the Byculla zoo on Saturdays in a double-decker bus. If he had only ten rupees, he bought them ice cream and lied to them that he didn’t want any. He took them for walks in the evenings and taught them to ride cycles that were taken on rent — 5 rupees for one hour. He sang songs to them, all sorts of songs — most of them he just made up.

They both made sacrifices for their children every day. Sacrifices their children would never know they had made. They did everything they could to make sure their children did everything they wanted to.

They were a team.

They became the infamous Leslies.

They started a culture that became infectious. A culture of loving people unconditionally, having an open home with lots of food in it. A culture of giving whatever is there to whomever needs it without thinking about tomorrow. A culture of not holding back anything and working really hard for everything. A culture of singing and playing games and laughing so hard that you cry. A culture of praying together and reading the Bible. A culture so strong that it won’t fade away through posterity. It will live on.

It’s 6^th May today, thirty seven years since the day they got married.

He is almost 70 and she is 60, but they both look much younger. He hasn’t stopped making her laugh, she hasn’t stopped taking care of him. They both haven’t stopped making sacrifices for their children.

Their children are married too now and want to know the secret to their parents’ marriage. Turns out it is no secret at all — they just never gave up.

The post A Love Story About People You Know appeared first on Becky Lee Pearson.

He gently mounted the first piece of blank canvas on His easel and stared at it for a brief moment. He thought about the futility of the canvas. Of how meaningless and ineffective it was. Of how helplessly inept it would have continued to be if He hadn’t opened it up today. He considered, for a moment, that He didn’t really need the canvas at all. He could do without it. But, today… “Today”, he whispered to Himself under His breath, “Today, I’ll attempt to make beauty ever so slightly tangible”.

He smiled to Himself at the thought of beauty, of how ethereal it was. He chuckled at the challenge before Him and pulled out a brush from His Cloak.

His first stroke was a shade of tangerine. It smudged across the canvas and He knew it had come alive. The tangerine spread across the canvas and turned into shades of rust and mahogany. Bright bursts of mustard yellow sprung from the orange and leapt across the white spaces. As the canvas slowly emerged into a vivacious blend of hues, a shining gold ball of colour birthed in the heart of this sea of orange tints. The gold circle spewed hues of saffron liberally. The Artist was pleased.

He hadn’t even named this stunning, glowing, picturesque blend of amber hues before He found Himself making a second stroke. A small gentle caress across the tawny splurge before Him. A new streak appeared across the sheet. At first, it was a subtle shade of blue that slowly trickled it’s way evenly across the ginger expanse. Every shade of ochre submitted to this slow invasion of sapphire softness that enveloped the entirety of the canvas. The Artist’s face beamed with a grin of satisfaction. He knew that this clear azure tone would be the most desired colour on this canvas. He watched as the turquoise grandeur before Him subtly emitted soft cushions of mellow grey and white. Broad sections radiant royal cerulean shades swept across the stretch of material.

The Artist wasn’t surprised, but He was content. He almost stopped, but there was another stroke that had to be made. The last one. The necessary one. He grazed His brush across the canvas and a huge drop of dark violet stained the pure cobalt serenity. It crept stealthily inching towards each corner transforming every bit of the expanse into a deep purple. The Artist saw that there was too much darkness and splattered His brush across the sheet. Little tiny drops of white light burgeoned across the blackness. The beauty of this polka-dotted design almost brought a tear to His Eye.

He shook His head in quick realisation that if there were no black, there’d be no looking forward to the crimson and the blue. He looked at the masterpiece before Him. Shades of colours that He only knew to exist inside of Him were now across the extent of this canvas. He knew this beauty had to be shared. These colours had to be witnessed. The hues had to be experienced.

He gently held the skies in His Hands and walked outside the workshop. It was time to let somebody have this exquisite piece of work.

He looked inside Himself and said, “Let Us make man in Our Image.”

The post The Grand Artist appeared first on Becky Lee Pearson.

Today, I’m more excited than usual. Mamma told me the story of Daniel in the den of lions yesterday. She carefully explained to my rather ‘naïve’ mind (or so she thinks) how the lions were hungry but they did not eat Daniel because Jesus had sealed their mouths. She reiterated the fact that even the lions listened to Jesus. I think it is because He made them. Mamma told me how God created all animals with great skill and imagination. She said I must thank God when I see them in the zoo. So, that is exactly what I will do today. I will thank God for the animals. It’s my assignment for today’s visit.

We have been waiting for the bus for what seems like an eternity now and Sammy wants Mamma to carry him. Daddy offers to do that but he insists on Mamma holding him. Sammy is just two years old and talks very little. He doesn’t understand much either. I’m older than him and understand much more. Last night, he didn’t understand the story of Daniel. I tried explaining it to him with elaborate actions but he thought it was some kind of a game. I’ve often seen him trying to read books upside down and scribble on the walls. ‘How childish’ I’ve often thought to myself when I see him trotting about aimlessly in the house. It’s good for him he has a responsible and mature sister like me.

“God made Sammy,” is all Mamma said when I asked her where he came from. She was hoping I’d believe God dropped him at the hospital and they picked him up from there. I am smart though and noticed her stomach bulge for almost four months before Sammy came. Although I haven’t discussed this with dad or mom, I am sure God put him in her stomach before he came in her hands. My parents will be amazed at my ability to comprehend when I share this with them but I’d rather not. I will play along as a gullible kid.

Sammy is fairer than me and I heard one aunty say he looks like Mamma. I also heard someone in church say that I look like Daddy. I think that’s because both daddy and I are dark. Sammy has got big and expressive eyes. His eyes are too big for his face, I think. But my hair is too thick for my head too. So it’s alright if we’re not all the same, I guess.

I like the bus that takes us to the zoo. It’s a double-decker bus. Dad always takes us on the top and I usually get to sit right up front. Today, however, the bus looks crowded. Dad makes sure we all get in when the bus comes and he gets in after us all. Mamma sits down on one seat and Sammy gets to sit on her lap. Dad and I are standing.

“How come Sammy gets to sit on Mamma’s lap and I don’t Daddy?” I ask, rather unhappy about the fact that he got to stick his head out the window. Daddy looks around to see if there is another vacant seat and then looks back at me. “When you were his age you got to sit on Mamma’s lap too. Now you’re older and you can manage yourself in a crowd. You’re growing up to be a smart, understanding little girl,” he pauses and looks at Sammy and then at me again. “Sammy is still a baby. He can’t manage standing all by himself, that’s why he needs Mamma.”

I stare intently at Sammy. His eyes are big and round and wide open now. His long lashes seem to be curved straight up in the air as his eyeballs catch every movement outside the bus. I wonder what he’s thinking now. Can he even think? He can’t manage standing all by himself, that’s why he needs Mamma.

The bus stops all of a sudden and Dad carries Sammy immediately from mamma’s hand. “It’s time to get off, Chinku,” he tells me.

He’s always called me Chinku and so has Mamma. It’s my pet name, they say. “Why don’t you all call me Rebecca like my teacher in school does?” I had once asked Mamma. She then explained how when I was born I had really petite eyes and so my granny started calling me ‘Chinky’ (which is Tamil for ‘Chinese’). She said they eventually started calling me Chinku, which was a metamorphosized version of ‘Chinky’.

Daddy asks us to wait near the ticket counter while he stands in the line to buy the tickets. Mummy sits herself on a wooden bench by the ticket area. Sammy is trying to show her that he can run all by himself.

I like playing with Sammy. His credulous mind believes anything I tell him. This being his first visit to the zoo, I hope to educate him a bit on the things that go on around here.

Dad is the seventh person in a long line of uncles and aunties who are buying tickets for their families. Next to the ticket counter is a metal railing that’s taller than me. Hmm…interesting…here’s a good chance for me to give Sammy his first zoo lesson. I drag him to the railing and try to reach my hands up to it. At times like this, I wish I were eight or ten years old. It is the perfect age to hang from a railing that high.

Sammy looks at me with his eyes wide open. “See this is how the monkeys in the zoo hang in their cages,” I say, matter-of-factly, jumping up to get hold of the railing and trying to hang on to it. My first try is a failure and Sammy is giggling. Determined to share my expert knowledge with him, I try again, this time holding firmly to the railing. Sammy is clearly impressed by now and he’s clapping his hands enthusiastically. He moves up behind me and starts shouting fervently, “Monkey! Monkey!……. Mamma, Chinku…….Monkey!”

I desperately long to see the look on his face. I bend my head over to get a glimpse of him and I see a delightful sight. Upside-down trees, upside-down people, upside-down walls…and hey, upside-down Sammy, clapping his hands!!!

What happened next was not a part of the lesson. Within a split second my hands slip off the railing and the sky seems to rotate and slam!!! I fall ‘upside-down’ on the ground below. I feel something cut through my head like a sharp knife and I can feel the blood trickle down my scalp. My screams get dad and mom’s attention and they run to me by reflex. Sammy is clapping more vigorously, thinking I’m still entertaining him. I suddenly feel like crying so badly and hey, before I know it I’m howling out loud.

Dad quickly carries me and examines the spot where I hurt myself on my head. There’s a nasty bump there and it aches in an excruciating way every time he tries to wipe the blood off the wounded spot. My head hurts in a splitting way and I can barely hear Mamma praying in my ears. I think Mamma is trying to simultaneously pacify Sammy who is also crying loudly by now. ‘Why does he have to scream when I am hurt?’ I think amidst the pain and tears. It makes no sense now. Nothing makes sense now.

Still carrying me, Dad rushes us all out to the gate. He sends mamma and Sammy home in a cab. Before leaving Mamma asks me not to cry so much and that she would have prepared ‘rasna’ for me by the time I reach home from the doctor’s.

Dad rushes me over to the doctor’s. We wait in a room and in no time I find myself on the doctor’s examining table. He carefully scrutinizes my wound and gives the nurse some instructions in ‘hospital language’. The nurse first gives me a little orange lollipop and then asks me to bend my head down. I’ve stopped crying by now because I’m glad that the lollipop is a part of the treatment. She does something with my head for the next few minutes and then sits me back on Daddy’s lap. “I told you this wouldn’t hurt a bit,” he said, smiling at me broadly. I feel better now and ask Dad if I can take a look in the mirror. He says ‘ok’ quite reluctantly.

I wasn’t prepared to see what I see now. In the mirror, at the doctor’s clinic, I see a different ‘me’, a sight that is quite a shock for my five-year-old mind. Where there once stood a smart palm tree shaped ponytail, now stands a flat white tape with some cotton underneath it. The area around the white tape has been shaved and my scalp is exposed quite a bit. The rest of my hair remains intact, but nothing can replace the loss of my ponytail. The lollipop in my hand is drying by now, as I haven’t sucked on it for long. All of a sudden, I feel like throwing it away.

I walk back and Dad identifies my unhappiness. He pays the doctor and helps me wear my slippers. He offers to carry me but I decline and prefer to walk on my own. When will he realize I am too old to be carried? I am five now. Five minus a ponytail.

“Come on, baby, cheer up,” Daddy says, but I can barely hear him. My mind is elsewhere. My mind is with my beautiful little colourful hair bands and hair clips that have suddenly been orphaned with the disappearance of my ponytail. When, O, when can I wear them again? “You are looking so cute, like a little doll,” Daddy adds. He then goes on to sing, “My daughter, my daughter, my life-giving water.” It sounds like a rhyme and he sounds happy.

I’m not glad at all. He can sing all he wants and he may know everything but does he know what it feels like to lose a ponytail? Does he know how it feels to have a white bandage on your head without any hair around it? Like a lonely island in the middle of the sea?

We reach the bus stop and Daddy is still humming some song. He seems distant and numb to my feelings and fears. He can’t possibly be happy when I’m going through such a crisis, can he? Can’t he also see how my social life is going to be influenced? How am I to go to Sunday school anymore? And what about my classmates? How do I explain to them that this is just what normally happens when you are educating your younger brother on matters important?

Daddy looks down at me, quite unexpectedly, and says, “Chinku, are you sad about your new hairstyle?” He pauses and then continues, “Remember baby, what people tell you doesn’t matter. It will never change who you are. When you go to school now, your friends may call you ‘takli’ (‘bald’ in Hindi), but you must realize that this is only temporary and that your hair will grow again. What the world says of you doesn’t matter at all. You get that right?” I look at him wondering how he knew just what I was thinking. “What Daddy, Mamma and Sammy think of you really matters. And I think you are beautiful, Mamma and Sammy will agree.” He tickles me and adds, “And think of it, how many people get to have a family like ours. Mamma has something great cooking at home for us and Sammy is surely waiting to play with you. We’ll have a great time once we’re home.”

I haven’t realized it but I’m giggling by now. I’m thinking of how Mamma often pours out the ‘rasna’ into the ice-cube tray and makes us different flavoured ice cubes. I can’t wait to go home and check if there are any left in the freezer. And Sammy has still to know so much about the zoo. After all, ‘a smart, understanding little girl’ was what Dad described me as.

Hmm…I feel the burden of Sammy’s zoo education lies on me. I just made up my mind, after today’s episode, not to go with the practical lessons first. He must learn the theory first…so that’s it… tonight’s lesson will be mimicking animal sounds.

For starters, I think he should just learn the meow, the bow-wow and the moo.

The post Zoo Much! appeared first on Becky Lee Pearson.

I wish I could be a flower too or at least a bird… like a parrot or even a sparrow.

But then, who is going to dress me up??? Mamma can’t dress me up…She spends all her time dressing up Sammy who, well, really needs her now.

A week back Sammy burnt his right arm and he’s been admitted in a local children’s hospital. The doctor dresses him up everyday with white bandage and he’s become very cranky. Mamma takes care of Sammy in the hospital and she’s even living with him there. I guess Sammy’s in great pain now because I’ve heard him howl a couple of times when he’s being bandaged. Dad and I visit him once everyday but Dad says they will only be home after two more Sundays….hmmm…….that’s fourteen more days!!!

Anyway, the bigger crisis now is the fancy dress competition. I wonder what Dad will suggest when I ask him what to dress as for the competition. I’m waiting to go home and tell him all about my classmates and what they want to become.

At dinner:

“Daddy, Sydelle is going to be a giraffe for the fancy dress competition….” I tell Dad as we chomp food ordered from a restaurant. I’m struggling with the fact that mamma isn’t here to feed me. I first look at my plate which is an ugly mess with half the food on the floor and then at Dad who is watching a football match with his mouth open. I don’t think he heard what I just told him.

“Daddy, there’s a fancy dress competition in school day after tomorrow,” I try again.

“Ahhhhhh………..GOAL!” Daddy screams in response his eyes still glued to the TV. As I wonder what’s so interesting about a group of people chasing a ball, Dad decreases the TV volume and looks down at me, “A fancy dress competition, eh?” he says with a grin, “you wouldn’t need to dress up. Go stand on the stage and they’ll all see a monkey.” He nudges me with his elbow winks and then looks at my reaction. ‘Nice joke, dad’ I think but give him an I’m-not-in-the-mood-right-now look.

“Let me think now…….hmmmm…..” He adds, rather quickly.

My Dad doesn’t have to think a lot for answers usually. He knows a lot and takes all my questions very gravely. It makes me feel important. He tells me the best he knows of a subject and always makes practical suggestions.

This time he takes longer than usual but finally proposes, “How about asking Mamma tomorrow when we go to visit Sammy. I’m sure you will be someone very different from all the others. So don’t worry, baby! We’ll definitely work something out by tomorrow.”

That’s a satisfying answer. I can wait till tomorrow and I wonder what Mommy will say about the competition. I wonder what Sammy is doing now and how different he must be feeling.

“Come on and get your hands washed” Daddy says, dusting the rice off my dress. I run to the kitchen sink to wash my hands and stand on the stool by the tap. I like this place a lot. I can look at myself in the mirror while I wash my hands here. There’s pickle on my forehead and rice around my mouth. I wash my face and look up again. I can just imagine how stunning I will look in a parrot costume…..this competition is going to be so much fun!!!

Dad is still watching the match. I lie on his lap and talk to him a little. We always discuss highly important matters and I feel very scholarly when I talk to him. I like to listen to him, too.

In school…Mrs. Emily is on the stage and behind her are all my other teachers. I can see Mrs. Thelma, Mrs. Lily and hey, there’s Miss Sandra…she’s my favourite. Sydelle is by me in a giraffe costume and she is looking unusually nice for a ‘giraffe’! Nikola’s sunflower head has lost two petals and her mom is trying to borrow a safety pin from the others to fasten them back together. I can barely recognize all my classmates in their costumes. All I can see are fishes and princesses and animals of all sizes. I’m proud of my parrot costume as no one has such bright colours on them. Miss Sandra told me I look adorable. I know she means every word she tells me.

She slowly makes her way to the stage and announces, “It’s been a tough competition between all of you children and all of you have done your best. But we all know that there can be only winner and that has to beeeeeeee…….Rebecca….the parrot!!!!!!!! Can we all clap for her now?….Rebecca, why don’t you come up here and act like a parrot again? You are a natural!”

I can’t believe this….It can’t possibly be real….all my friends are clapping and some are shouting ‘Popat’, ‘Popat’ (Hindi for ‘Parrot’). It’s an exhilarating feeling. I walk to the stage proudly, take the mike and say my lines just as Dad taught me, with a highly nasal tone, “Polly wants a cracker! Polly wants a cracker! Polly wants a cracker!” It’s a lovely feeling, standing on the stage here with a little gift-wrapped box in my hand. I can see Sydelle from here…and Nikola, too. Nikola has lost another petal by now.

“Come on! Come on!” I can hear dad shouting loudly. “It’s morning already and Sammy and Mamma must be waiting for us.”

I open my eyes and look at him drearily. I realize I was dreaming and want to tell dad about it all right away but he looks like he’s in a hurry to leave.

I manage a quick bath, put on a pink frock with frills and hastily tie up my hair in a crooked pony tail. I am afraid Dad can’t help me with any of this. It’s Mamma’s department. She dresses me up like a princess, with matching ribbons and earrings, two equally defined pony tails and an even coat of talcum powder on my face. She makes me think I’m beautiful. I miss her so much.

Dad and I walk to the hospital and into the burns ward where Sammy is admitted. He seems to have just got up from his sleep and looks drowsy. Mom looks tired and she tells dad that she hasn’t slept much at night because of Sammy. “He was crying a lot last night and was restless,” she tells daddy.

“He was crying a lot last night and was restless”…..hmm…..and I had a great dream last night……our lives are so different…’ I think quietly as Dad seats himself near Mamma. He misses her a lot too. It doesn’t take any intellect to recognize that.

Sammy looks at me and seems disinterested and distant. I want to tell him about the fancy dress and the dream I had last night, but I don’t think this is a good time. His big, round eyes look frightened for some reason.

Dad and mom are whispering and they talk as if they meet after a month or so. I am supposed to keep Sammy entertained while they talk. They didn’t tell me that. I just know.

After what seems to me like half an hour, mom offers me an apple that was bought for Sammy. She then calls me to sit on her lap. We talk about school and homework and I have lots to tell her while she undoes my crooked ponytail and straightens out my knotted hair. Daddy carries Sammy around the ward and shows him other children with worse burns than his. I’m sure he must be telling Sammy to be happy that he isn’t burnt that much.

Mom tells me that she and Dad discussed about my fancy dress competition and that Dad would dress me up to be something very special and different. She says it’s a surprise. I can hardly wait to find out but since the big day is tomorrow I think I can wait.

When it’s finally time to leave, I can know from Sammy’s eyes he misses me a lot. He looks at us and waves out with his left hand till we move out of the ward and vanish out of sight.

On our way back, Dad drops me off at school and kisses me good bye. We don’t talk about my costume but I trust dad and mom to have arranged the best for me.

The rest of my day is filled with a weird sense of suspense and killing curiosity. My mind explores all the possible animals I could be and all the possible lines I could be saying. As time passes and evening turns to night, I feel an anxious inquisitiveness and a desperate excitement within me.

Before I realize it, the big day has arrived. Dad wakes me up and I feel no languor or lethargy whatsoever. I get up at once and run to the bathroom. Dad has already got the hot water ready for my bath and all I have to do is bathe quickly. In the thrill of anticipation, I forget to wash my hair and even lather the soap very carelessly.

I step out wrapped in a pink towel and dad is waiting for me with a big bag in his hand. Seated next to him on the chair is a Maharashtrian neighbour aunty whom I call ‘Aaee’ (Marathi for ‘mother’). I smile at her and look at the bag in Dad’s hand. There it is!!! The bag that holds my prize-winning costume! Slowly, he pulls it out and my eager eyes see the most unexpected sight. He pulls out a length of brown cloth that has black checks on it. Then with it he pulls out a little black blouse. What follows next is an assortment of jewellery and fresh jasmine flowers knitted together to form a little garland.

Dad sees my confused face and says, “Baby, how’s this??? You are going to be a Maharashtrian Koli woman.” He looks at me expectantly for a reaction. Koli? I don’t understand but I don’t ask him what it is either. I know that if ask him what Koli means he will give me a complicated explanation which is bound to make me late for the competition. I smile back at dad and Aaee grabs hold of me and starts wrapping the cloth around me in a very peculiar way. The last turn goes through my feet and up my rear and is tucked away neatly. Hmm…not bad I think. She loosens my hair and ties it in a side bun. She decorates it with flowers and adorns me with the jewellery. She proceeds to dab me with powder and applies lipstick generously on my lips.

I can hear dad say, “Baby, tell me who could have thought of something so unique and special.” I don’t answer and look in the mirror instead. I must admit, I don’t look like a ‘parrot’ or even a ‘monkey’ but I do look pretty. “Will Sydelle or Nikola look so pretty?” he asked me rhetorically. I want to thank him and ask him from where he got the dress but I fear that I may smear my lipstick and so simply signal him that I like it and that it is time to go.

As dad rushes me down the stairs, I can hear the jingle of my anklets. It sends a wave of excitement through me. I would be terribly surprised if anyone other than me won this contest. Dad and I quickly sit in a cab and before I can adjust my self properly, we are on our way to school. I fiddle with my green glass bangles in the cab and hear daddy warn me against breaking them. I find the nose ring on my nose very irritating and I try to tweak it a little too. Dad warns me again, but this time in an I-mean-business tone. I can bear this little pain I finally decide. The joys of the getting the prize will make me forget this slight soreness on my nose.

When we reach the school gate, dad alights first and pays the taxi driver. He then gently carries me out of the cab, careful not to crumple the pleats of my outfit.

I prefer to walk as having dad carry me around will prove damaging to my reputation as Miss Manage-Herself. Mismanage Herself. Dad agrees and understands my feelings on this subject quite well. He places me down and walks ahead of me allowing me to struggle behind him, making little small paced strides. We reach the school building and I see Miss Sandra wave at me from the door with a very surprised look. Dad reaches her before me and I can see him talk to her and laugh. They both look at me and laugh as I struggle to reach the door. I’m sure they’re joking about how I am bound to get the prize. I smile too, carefully though, causing no harm to the lipstick on my lips.

When I go near them, Miss Sandra bends down and says, “Rebecca, how sweet! You look terrific! You would have surely won the fancy dress competition.” Would have? “Now tell me, girl,” she smiles lovingly what were you dreaming of when I announced yesterday in class that the competition is cancelled? Hmm?” Cancelled? The words pass by me like a far off voice. I carefully process her words in my mind and then throw a loud, adult laugh. ‘God, the way grown ups indulge in hoodwinking kids is amazingly stupid’, I think.

I look at daddy and he bends down too. He beams a warm smile and says, “Baby, you must have not paid attention in class yesterday when Miss Sandra announced that the Fancy Dress is cancelled. It’s okay. There’s another programme here today for you and you can enjoy it with me, sitting in the audience. We will have a great time, I’m sure. There’s a Red-Indian dance and I’ll tell you all about the Red-Indians.” He’s holding me close in his arms now but none of his words make any sense. It all sounds like a taped message that I wish I could rewind. My eyes well up and the swelling in my throat is too enormous to hold back. I don’t like to cry in front of Miss Sandra. She thinks I am strong minded. In a fit of hurt and frustration, I run past them both to the school hall where I see a lot of my class mates dressed in little multi-coloured skirts with their faces painted in different colours. Reality hits me harder now than ever and I burst into uncontrollable tears. I sit outside the hall weeping and wondering why all of this happened to me. Why didn’t it happen to Sydelle? Or Nikola?

Dad and Miss Sandra walk towards me and they seem to be discussing something important. Miss Sandra sweeps me up in her arms and tells me very consolingly, “Baby, please don’t cry. It’s alright if you didn’t hear properly yesterday. It happens sometimes. What’s important is that you did your best. I like that in you. Look at it this way,” she continued, pointing towards all my classmates dressed as Red-Indians, “They all look the same, but you are so different. Now stop crying like a good girl and get dressed into this. We have a show to start.” She thrust a blue Red-Indian skirt in my hand and walked away into the hall.

Daddy kissed me on my cheek and the hair of his moustache poked me. The make-up on my face was smudged because of my tears and Dad’s moustache. But it didn’t matter anymore. “Quickly pose for a picture, baby” Daddy said, pulling the camera out of his pocket. “We must have a picture to show Mamma and Sammy how pretty you are looking today.” He asks me to stand on the bench I am sitting on and I force a fake smile.

I feel angry with him and angry with myself. But none of this is his fault anyways. It’s my mistake. I wonder if Dad is upset with me for making him waste so much time on what ultimately was a trivial affair that really wasn’t meant to be. I wonder if he hates me and doesn’t want me to be his baby again. ‘My God! This is too much trauma for my six year old mind to deal with.’

I watch quietly as dad helps me off the bench and undoes my Koli sari. He helps me wear the blue skirt and is singing all the while. He’s singing a Konkani song. I wonder what makes him so chirpy at all times. Even when he’s got a ‘blunder-queen’ for a daughter.

I quickly run into the hall and a young lady comes to paint my face. She paints it blue and yellow stripes. Miss Sandra hands me a crepe paper crown that matches my skirt. I look at all the other Red-Indians rehearsing their little dance and feel miserable inside. I don’t deserve to be here. I don’t even know the dance. But as if reading my mind, Miss Sandra looks at me and says, “Baby, you just move along with everyone and imitate what your friends are doing. It’s okay if you make mistakes because we all do. But don’t quit at any time, okay? You look great and will do great. Daddy’s going to be watching you from the audience, so please wear a smile okay.” I listen to every word she says and admire her in my heart. I want to be like her one day. I would love to take care of little tots who can’t manage themselves and make stupid mistakes, so I can act smarter than them. But Miss Sandra doesn’t act over smart. She seems to be in control of every situation. I smile at her and nod in agreement.

On the stage, I was right at the furthest back and Nikola and Sydelle chose to stand near me. For moral support, I guess. They are really good friends. Sydelle is in a red skirt that is too short for her long, skinny legs and Nikola’s underwear can be seen through the slits in her skirt. The dance seems simple and I catch the steps real quick. It’s just a wave from one side to another and an occasional jump and a turn. Hey, this is really fun. I jump on Nikola’s foot by mistake and Sydelle is laughing aloud now.

I suddenly remember Miss Sandra’s words ‘Daddy’s going to be watching you from the audience, so please wear a smile okay?’ I lean over all my class mates dancing ahead of me and stand on my toes, to get a peek into the audience. At first, I don’t see him…but the second time I try, I see Daddy clearly. He’s in the rear part of the hall and he seems to be standing on his toes too to get a glimpse of the stage. I look at his face and of all the students on the stage, his eyes are fixed on me. He waves frantically when he sees me and I feel very special inside. No one else’s father is waving.

On our way back home, we visit Sammy and Mamma in the hospital. My face is still painted although I’m not wearing the skirt anymore. I had changed into a frock after the programme was over. Sammy seems tickled about my face and so are all the other kids in the ward. Dad and mom talk a little while I relive the day’s happenings to Sammy in detailed actions and simple words that his frail mind can comprehend.

When it’s finally time to leave the hospital, Mamma tells me how daddy told her all about the dance and how she missed being there so much. I tell Sammy to come home soon and bend to kiss him on his cheek. He bobs his head and the kiss lands on his eye instead. He throws me a you-don’t-know-how-to-kiss-look and Mamma laughs with Daddy.

Back at home, Dad tells me who the Red-Indians are and I listen to him in awe of his know-how. He still hasn’t shown any signs of having been angry with me. I wonder what he is thinking about me now. In a desperate attempt to find out I slowly suggest, “Dad, do you think I can be a Red-Indian in the next Fancy Dress competition.” He looks at me and slowly replies, “If you promise to pay more attention in class.” I nod slowly and he tickles me till I can’t laugh anymore and my eyes are moist with tears.

That night:

I stand among the crowd of my class mates, behind the stage in the hall. I wait for Miss Sandra is about to announce the winner of the Fancy Dress contest and Nikola nudges at me suggestively. She is dressed as a bride wearing a flowing white gown with a lovely tiara and a veil. Her lines were very simple. All she did was go on stage and say, “I do.”

My part was more difficult though, requiring more skills than that. I had to sing an African song Dad had taught me and dance a little around the stage. “Chaalo cheelo cheelo, Chaalo cheelo cheelo…Catch a running fox and put him in a box and never let him go… Chaalo cheelo cheelo, Chaalo cheelo cheelo…”

I also had to throw my cardboard spear as if aiming at an imaginary fox. Many had complimented me on my Red-Indian Dress as well as my performance and I have no qualms about winning this contest.

I stand back stage now with colourful feathers stuck all over my head and a spear in my hand. My skirt seems to have loosened with all the jumping and dancing and I adjust it at the waist by tucking it in my underwear. I look around to make sure nobody saw me do that.

Suddenly, I hear a clear voice announce loudly, “…….and the first place goes to Miss Rebecca………Our little Red-Indian girl……..”

“Chaalo cheelo cheelo, Chaalo cheelo cheelo…Catch a running fox and put him in a box and never let him go… Chaalo cheelo cheelo, Chaalo cheelo cheelo…”

The post Fancy Dress Mayhem appeared first on Becky Lee Pearson.

Today, the man selling balloons on the beach doesn’t seem to be amazed by them a wee bit. He looks old and gaunt. His skeletal frame seems to be strutting across the sand like a lone stranger with no place to go. His haggard looks don’t match the fine-looking bunch of balloons he’s carrying. He’s just holding them loosely, like he doesn’t even know how precious they are, how magical they are or even how they are speaking to me. How boorish of him. Such impeccable ignorance.

‘What a wasted man’, my five year old mind thinks. I wonder what it must be like to be ‘him’. To have all those beautiful colours in my hand. I wouldn’t have sold them if I were him. I wouldn’t have held them as loosely as that vagabond does. He’s a bad man, I think. Bad men don’t love Jesus and do things that He doesn’t like. That’s what Mamma says. I wonder if he doesn’t love Jesus. I wonder if Jesus likes him selling those gorgeous balloons like that. I must ask Mamma when I go home. Mamma knows everything about Jesus.

“Do you want to eat something, baby?” asks Daddy, breaking my meticulous chain of thoughts. I don’t answer. The balloons are still on my mind. “You can get yourself a camel ride or even a horse ride if you want to”, he says again. A camel ride? Sounds interesting, but, “Daddy, could you buy me a balloon?” is all I say. My Dad nods his head in a way that means ‘NO’. He then sits me down on the sand and gives me an it’s-time-for-a-vital-life-lesson look. He explains very plainly, “Baby, a balloon is a waste of money. It’s just a useless piece of rubber with air inside. Air is all around us and it’s free of cost. But that man is making money by selling to people what God has given us freely. Ask me anything else and I’ll give it you.” He further suggests that I take a ride on the merry-go-round. But it doesn’t even make a difference. I’m fighting tears. I don’t even want to answer him or he may find out that there’s a big apple-sized lump in my throat. I could burst into tears any moment now and he doesn’t have a lightest clue of how deeply his words have cut me.

‘What does Daddy know about balloons?’ I wonder. I suddenly feel like going home and crying to Mamma. I feel like hiding my face in her lap. I feel like running away but I can see Daddy leading me to the merry-go-round. He seems okay with all that he just told me.

Each seat on the ride is shaped differently. There’s one like an airplane. Another like a shark. Then there’s still another like a motorbike and one like an elephant. The red one is a dragon, I think. Very ugly. Many little kids are around the ride and I wonder why there isn’t a seat shaped like a balloon. Anyways, I choose to sit on the airplane because it can also be in the sky like a balloon. Infant logic. Dad helps me get onto it and asks me to hold the rod tight. There’s another girl sitting on the red dragon opposite me holding a monkey-shaped balloon in her hand. Interesting. Interesting how a useless piece of rubber can take that shape. Her father is by her too. He laughs loudly and looks a lot like someone I know. I just can’t figure out whom.

The ride starts slowly and I think about why Mamma hasn’t come today. She’s usually always there with us on our outings. Daddy is waving out to me excitedly every time I pass him. I’m starting to like this ride. It makes me feel light inside. Like I’m flying. Hey! Maybe this is how a balloon feels. Dad is calling out my name loudly, ‘Rebecca, Rebecca’. Why isn’t he calling me ‘baby’ like he always does? I must ask him when I get off. I think he wants others around to know my name.

The girl on the red dragon is giggling a lot. She shouldn’t have sat on the ride with her balloon. It’s going to fly away. Sure enough, it does. It floats away from her hand. And when it does, she stops giggling and bursts into tears. I can hear her dad scream out, “Sodun dey…. naveen aanuya.” (“Leave it…We’ll buy a new one”) I look at his face and then up at the balloon. It’s quite high up in the sky now. It’s fascinating to see a monkey shaped balloon up there.

As the merry-go-round slows a weird feeling of sadness creeps in. I know that soon it will be time to go home. Dad will take me home by bus. I like a bus ride. It’s pretty interesting too, if I get a window seat. Wouldn’t it be nice if we could ride home on a merry-go-round? But then, Dad wouldn’t fit on it, would he?

He’s holding my hand now and we’re walking to the bus stop. Dad has to hold my hand or else I can get lost is what he told me. I am waiting to go home. I have lots to tell Mamma and ask her. I wonder if she has ever sat on a merry-go-round. I must ask her about the balloons, too. I can’t stop thinking about them for now. I wonder where the monkey shaped balloon is now. I wonder if it’s still in sky. Or will it go beyond that to heaven? Mamma told me once that God lives in heaven beyond the sky. And from there He watches over all of us. Will He like it if the balloon goes to His house? I need to discuss important issues with Mamma.

I can hear Daddy sing a song now. He’s always singing. I like that a lot. I think he’s knows all the songs on this earth. But does he know any songs about balloons? I want to ask him but I’m scared. He had told me they are a ‘useless piece of rubber with air inside’. What if I were a balloon would he say the same thing? I don’t think so. He loves me. He sings for me and tells me a lot of things I don’t know. I think he knows everything.

I suddenly feel pleasant—as if I’m new. I feel a cold shiver go do my spine and it excites me. So what if he didn’t buy me the balloon like the red-dragon-girl’s dad? Maybe her dad doesn’t know that balloons are a ‘useless piece of rubber with air inside’. Maybe he doesn’t know everything like ‘my’ dad does. May be he can’t sing like ‘my’ dad either.

I’m happy that I am ‘me’ and not the red-dragon-girl. I’m also happy that Daddy is he and not her dad who looks like someone I know. There’s no one who I know that looks like ‘my’ dad. I must thank Jesus now. Mum said that Jesus made us all like this—so different.

I wonder if He made Daddy, then how He Himself must be.

I’ll ask Mamma.

The post Balloon Baby appeared first on Becky Lee Pearson.