Mithi…

….is the name of the four year old girl I met at my dadu’s place last evening. She has a dimpled smile and a cute bob of hair. Her eyes lit up the moment she spotted the bottle of Mirinda in my hands. She pulled me by the hand into the room on the bed which also doubled up as her ship. She was the sailor and I was a fish she’d caught and was planning to cut me up into little pieces to make maachher jhol (fish curry) and feed to her little children. I tried to look suitably enthusiastic about being cooked alive in a pot but then, the little doll that she is, she suddenly decided that she likes me and thus would not subject me to such gruesome torture. She even went on to show her affection by pinching my cheeks and kissing lightly on them and also blowing me little kisses every now and then.

When she was denied a sip of Mirinda (because it is for “elders and Mithi you’re still small”) she stole a few sips from my glass and planted another noisy kiss of her Mirinda-laced lips. Then we went on to defeat Bhooter Raja (King of Ghosts) and rescue the princess who was her daughter and my sister (which made her my mother though I clearly remember that we started off the game with her telling me that I am her father. Not important. Move on.)

She has an extraordinary imagination and memory. She paints the sky pink on her drawing book because she remembers that one day her mother had taken her to the roof during sunset and she saw the sky with brilliant streaks of pink and not blue. Though her mother frets and her kindergarten drawing teacher does all she can to explain to her that the sky is blue and not pink, she squeals in delight every time she finishes drawing a picture of a hut with green fields, a solitary smiling cow grazing on them and a smiling sun setting in a pink sky. She is obsessed with smiling faces and pouts a little when she is scolded but you pat her head once and she will lean against you with her eyes closed and smile as you continue patting her.

When I was about to leave she asked me repeatedly “abar ashbe toh?” (You will come again, won’t you?) and it just broke my heart when I realized that it was in all probability the first and the last time I am meeting this pint-sized powerhouse of fantastic imagination with the sunniest disposition I have seen in a long time. It is so unfair. We meet someone for the first time, like him/her immensely and before we can make some more happy memories with that person, we have to bid goodbye and never come back. She has about 50 imaginary friends with magical powers and who are far more interesting than me in her make-believe world and in all probability will not even remember me when if we meet again.

Also today I was in the roof when I saw the sun set and the sky painted a brilliant shade of pink. Boy! That kid does have a point. Why are elders such idiots?

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