Last week I suffered a major accident on my way from the dining table to the kitchen. I had temporarily forgotten that my house is not like Parliament or Assembly — one has to be careful while crossing the floor. You have to look left, look right, up and down to make sure there are no landmines.
So when I got up to get a jar of kannimanga pickle, I felt a shooting pain in my right foot. I screamed and fell back in my chair. When I looked down, a sharp, brown thing was sticking out of my foot and blood gushing out like a water fountain in Geneva. I didn’t know what to do. I had learnt from Hollywood movies that if you’re stabbed in the chest with, say, a harpoon, and the harpoon is sticking out of you, you shouldn’t try and pull it out because if you do, then you could bleed to death due to the hole left behind by the harpoon. But then, you also can’t not remove the harpoon, because people will stare at you if you walk on the road with a harpoon sticking out of your chest.
Bio-degradable weapon
My case was far worse. It was not a harpoon in my foot but a bio-degradable weapon with shape-shifting capabilities: a sharp piece of dried atta. The wound was so deep that I had to get my leg swathed in a dressing 3 inches wide and 20 km long. And the culprit, for your kind information, was none other than Kattabomman.
I knew K had developed a habit of pilfering pieces of dough from the kitchen. I had assumed he used them to make peaceful tribal artefacts such as necklaces, bowls, and ceremonial headgear for visiting prime ministers. Little did I know he was secretly making landmines and planting them all over the house for adults to step on.
If you think I am making this up, I suggest you try it out yourself. Take some dough, shape it into a sharp nail, stick it to the floor of your living room, and let it dry. One week later, step on it with full force. Let me know if the atta-nail doesn’t pierce your sole and come out on the other side.
Serial pain
Did I confront Kattabomman about this? I tried to. It didn’t go well. So many of you have been mailing me asking why I’ve stopped writing about him. The answer: Terrible Twos. Kattabomman has been at the peak of his Terrible Twos the past few months, the atta attack being only the latest in a series of painful incidents.
As a responsible parent, however, I’m shocked that no one told me the real meaning of Terrible Twos — that it’s a description not of the toddler’s behaviour but the parent’s. What I’ve learnt is that ‘Terrible Twos’ is a developmental phase, generally witnessed when a child is between two and three years old, during which the child’s parent is at his/ her most terrible behaviour. To my shame, I had to learn this from Kattabomman only.
Contrary to all my expectations, Kattabomman has been extremely — and infuriatingly — polite from the time he entered the ‘Terrible Twos’. And despite being the son of an Indian journalist, he has this unfortunate habit of tirelessly posing uncomfortable questions to those who wield power over him — in this case, me. This can turn even a most gentle and reasonable person — such as me — into a minor monster. Let me share a sample exchange that occurred last Tuesday. You’ll see what I mean.
Me : Enough of playing with the potatoes. Eat them now.
K : Why?
Me : If you don’t eat them, dinosaur will come and eat you.
K : Why?
Me : Because dinosaur eats little boys who don’t finish their food.
K : Why?
Me : Because that’s the dinosaur code of ethics.
K : Why?
Me : JUST SHUT UP AND EAT!
K : Speak softly, Papa. Why are you shouting?
Me : BECAUSE I’M ANGRY!
K : You said only Bad Boy gets angry.
Me ( speaking very softly ): If you don’t finish your potatoes, I’ll inform dinosaur RIGHT NOW!
K : Why?
Me ( taking out my phone ): Hello? Is that Mr Dinosaur? Can you come here fast?
K ( bursts into tears ): No-no-no!
I know what this looks like. But trust me, I am the victim here. Ultimately, I only have to swallow his potatoes, and if you know, like I do, what all they’ve endured — from being run over by a garbage truck to being tortured by a gang of psychopathic teddy bears — you’d happily pick another five years of acche din over those damned potatoes.
sampath.g@thehindu.co.in
