Conversing with telephone

“You are a sorted person.”

A lady I had befriended a few months earlier surprised me one pleasant evening by calling me up, and we were in the phase of catching up and recalling good qualities about each other when she shot the above words which challenged my very notion of grasp of the English language. She went on to explain that she felt I was very clear in my thoughts, did not have any airs, and did not behave as though I needed to convert every acquaintance into a profitable opportunity. While she did not use these exact words, I translated the sentiments to suit my ego.

I never discussed the above conversation with my daughters. I never got the time. Shaivi, my younger daughter, has a very peculiar style of conversing with me – she starts talking incessantly on a topic till she runs out of things to say, and while I think about what to say in reply, she shifts to a completely new topic with equal fervour and gusto. She has not allowed physical distance to change her style, and continues to converse with same zeal on phone.

Even as an infant, Shaivi loved conversations. She would cry whenever she was alone, but would start laughing the moment one tried to talk to her. It did not matter what you said, as long as you kept speaking. Once she learnt how to utter syllables – not necessarily ones that make sense – she never stopped. I remember eighteen months old Shaivi delivering a five-minute monologue in syllables only she could pronounce when I asked her why she was creating a mess. I was not able to make out a single word of what she said, but that was probably because the language she spoke in required an eighteen-month-old interpreter. In another incidence, she had started crying when the elder one had asked her to keep quiet. Aadya was trying to read a book, and was disturbed by Shaivi’s constant chatter. She reported the entire incident when my wife found her sobbing in a room. On being pointed out that the matter was a trivial one, she retorted that she does not like being quiet, and continued sobbing.

Much like her elder sister, Shaivi is a very inquisitive girl. Even during the lockdown which has planted us at a significant geographical distance from each other – I am at my place of work while the girls and their mother are with their grandparents – their questioning spirit has remained unbridled. While Aadya likes to make a list of questions and blurts them out whenever she speaks to me and patiently waits for a satisfactory answer, Shaivi does not dwell upon the issue once her basic query is satisfied and quickly switches to the next question or issue of contention, and she always has a lot of these questions up her sleeves. 

Shaivi has been trying to earn accolades by taking up drawing. She is aware that her sister is a better painter, but what she lacks in talent, she makes up in zeal and hope. She is sure she will turn out better than her sister once she grows older, but her maths has still not given her a date when she will be older than her elder sister. So, in typical style, she just starts painting and expects praises and constructive criticism. Last night, she took her mother’s phone and sent me a drawing she had made of Pikachu – her favourite cartoon character – and kept checking the phone for my reply till she went to bed. She had a lengthy discussion with her mother about the possible reasons why I had not commented immediately. Was the drawing not good enough? The few smudges around the drawing were surely the fault of an inferior quality eraser. And she will be better able to ensure that he pencil marks do not reach out of the margin once she practices a bit more. So why had Papa not commented? Did he not like the drawing? Surely, such a thing was impossible!

During one of her conversations, she enquired about the birds and animals visiting our garden. She was somewhat disappointed that the stray cat that her elder sister was fond of feeding had not been visiting me regularly.

“Perhaps she has started going to Suman aunty’s place for food,” she said, and then started asking about a family of cranes that sometimes visit our garden.

I informed that the cranes have not been coming over of late.

“Perhaps they are also in a state of lockdown,” she reasoned. She went on to explain the complete social protocol which the crane leader would have adopted in case there were a disease among cranes which necessitated social distancing. I decided to be a realist and pointed out that unlike humans, cranes do not have a sheltered house or an accommodation where they can store food. I had to ward off her suggestion that cranes can store food in their nest, and brought out they have to go out every day in search of food.

“Then where have the cranes gone?” Shaivi enquired.

“I don’t know,” I said. “Perhaps they have migrated.”

An answer like above generally comes from a “sorted – out” man, and not from a “sorted” person that my friend had thought me to be.

The lone egret in my garden

The same evening, I saw the crane in my garden after many months.

At another time, I enquired my daughter about her books and online classes that had been started by her school. 

Pokémon drawn by Shaivi

Pikachu drawn by Shaivi

“The books are very interesting to read,” she said. “However, once the teacher explains it in the class, it becomes very boring. She dwells upon every point in such details that it is no longer fun.”

“I think all teachers have a special talent,” she continued to reason. “They can make any subject boring.”

“Then why don’t you read up the chapter before the teacher teaches,” I offered a suggestion. “That way, you will be able to enjoy every chapter. You can even ask questions about related points, and the teacher will have to tell you some more interesting facts or stories.”

“That is a wonderful idea,” she chirped. “I think the teachers’ super-power is to make everything boring, and your super-power is to make everything fun and interesting.”