God’s little people

I think children and God have a special connect. They just bond without much effort!
At least mine does and I realize I don’t put in as many efforts as I should to strengthen the bond. Thankfully for me, he loves to be by himself in such matters.

I don’t remember the last time I sat down and prayed. I do pray sometimes, but not necessarily sitting in front of the little devghar in my house – a corner in the kitchen where all our Gods reside.

I am not an atheist, neither am I into rituals or religion. But I know I am a firm believer.

As for D, he loves sitting in his grandfather’s lap as he performs his customary morning pooja. He loves putting tikka on the Gods and ringing the bell. He even wants to hold the idols in his tiny palms. His grandfather anoints him with an orange tikka and he comes to me triumphantly displaying his acquisition with a ‘Mama tita’.

For some time at home, we had this evening ritual where we all came together and prayed. I used to stand and join my hands. D once smugly instructed me to sit down and bow my head.

It’s been a while that we have prayed together now. But D has his daily dose in the morning. His grandparents have taught him some shlokas which he recites to the T looking all the more adorable.

I don’t know what I am going to pass on to him when it comes to beliefs and traditions. I have conveniently left that to his grandparents. All I know is I want my child to have some faith. Faith, I have realized, brings with it a sense of calm, serenity, assurance, confidence, strength and power. In life’s worst moments, it can keep you composed and grounded.

So now I have started this small routine at night to close my eyes and say a little prayer with D. I have told him it’s our ‘thank you’ to God every night. The prayer is neutral, not referring to any God in particular. D can develop his own affinities whenever. He loves listening to the prayer and makes me repeat over and over again. At one point, I have to stop and tell him we will do it again tomorrow.

Last night, I quietly pried my eyes open and found my little one with his eyes tightly shut and his hands joined in prayer.

Long after we finished praying, he still kept saying ‘Thank You God’.



D spies me clicking a picture, grows conscious, forgets to join hands and only manages to close eyes.

What you talkin about Mum?

On days when D is in his element, you will find the room strewn with toys, kitchen items, hangars, clothes pegs, CDs and much more. It looks no less than a battlefield. Of course, D himself is missing from the action because in all likelihood, he is in another room replicating the same design.

Even as I huff, puff and pant to clean up, the imp is back – all rejuvenated to bring the mess on the floor.

I have sometimes made the futile attempt of trying to teach him a thing or two about being non-messy. I try some lame pep talk like “You have to help Mama keep the house clean.”

Most often, he stares at me as I deliver the gibberish till I myself realize he is just two and doesn’t need the sermon really.

Ditto for our meal sessions. The latest discovery in D’s life is picking food from the plate and thrusting it into his mouth or eating with a spoon (actually two spoons – one in each hand). Even as some of it does manage to land in his stomach, most of it is on the floor. Though I have read reams and reams on how one should allow the kid to eat with his own hands, the whole nine yards of cleaning up after him make me jittery.

I still surreptitiously feed him even though he loves to eat by himself hoping that at least there would be a few morsels less on the floor to clean up.

I don’t know when I became so fastidious about cleanliness. I know I wasn’t born like this or I wouldn’t have had ‘those’ sessions with my mother. All I can remember is I was conditioned into it by her. Throwing clothes, books and toys around invited some wrath from her, so although I must admit, it was difficult, I still managed to come around after a lot of counselling.

She always ensured that things were organised in the house so much so that a friend would often remark “Your house looks like it has just been ironed.” Mum liked it that way, I endured!

The point is my mother worked on making us, especially me, realize the importance of being organised. When I moved out of my parents’ house and started living with roommates, it wasn’t easy because clearly our mothers had taught us different things.

Now, I think to myself that I need to pass all this on to D because as they say it’s better to start early. Then I look at my little one as he jumps in glee hurling the clothes I had neatly folded.

I realize he still lives in a world that believes flinging things is great, eating food with both hands is chic, and creating mess is en vogue. But then his world also believes in forgiving, forgetting, letting go off, crying, giggling, being innocent, learning, working without deadlines, sleeping without alarm clocks, living without fear and cuddling in Mama’s arms.

Then I look at myself. Isn’t there a lot more mess in my life? I realize my not-so-perfect ideals have no place in his perfect little world.