Of course the Universe will take a big bite out of my giant a**. Of course it will. With pointy, razor-sharp fangs, no less.
Just when I write my last post, something like this happens...
It's a lovely, monsoon morning. The type where the world looks like a faded water-colour and the poet in your soul feels restless. It's a Sunday morning too, so that means the house is over-flowing with the male presence. The MIM decides it's time to rock 'n' roll with the boys and puts on loud music in the bedroom. He mixes it up with the boys' favourites and his. So while our sons go beserk to "Aal Iz Well", they also learn to apprciate the fine nuances of a Guns 'n' Roses composition. The number in question? Well, as the MIM explains to his heirs, "This song is called 'Sweet Child of Mine'...'Mishti Bachcha Aamaar'." I guffaw while sitting in the other room, but of course there's music coursing through my veins by now and I am supporting Axl Rose's vocals with my back-up act, all the while, nose buried deep in a book. After the song, I suddenly hear the sweet voice of that 'sweet child of mine' trying to sing the chorus...in his own tune. I laugh. I call the EO to me and sing it to him so that he can pick up the correct tune. He loves it, throws himself into my arms, sits on my lap and buries his face into my neck as I sing "Oh-oh, sweet child of mine" over and over again. After I finish, he looks up at me and says, "I'm a happysaur!"
Thankfully, my little boy still hasn't outgrown his love for dinosaurs. Thankfully, he still likes to make up stories and words and images, giving vent to his creative, imaginative side. Thankfully, he loves the music his parents love and is inculcating a distinct taste of his own...an eclectic mixture of Rabindrasangeet, Biddha Bar, Bollywood, Disney and Rock.
And most of all, thankfully, my little boy is a little boy yet...definitely 'sweet child of mine.'