Re has been saying this all of last week. It was a progression from mamma mamma, dada dada, didi didi, kookoo kookoo (term of endearment for the pressure cooker, his favourite toy), kiki kiki (term of endearment for the seeti of the said pressure cooker), oga oga (short for o my god, to indicate he has done something he shouldn’t have). And some such.
My heart skipped a beat.
Was it poetry? Flashback to Amitabh Bachchan, the cadaverous poet in his kurta pyjama, reciting couplets to his beloved, who finally chose money over poetry in the Yash Chopra hit of the seventies, Kabhie Kabhie whose title track I was reminded of.
So, in this era of downloads and Facebook friends, had I produced a poet? Perhaps it had something to do with Re forming a bond with two of my closest friends, both of whom are poets? But no words had been exchanged, as far as I remembered. So was this innate talent?
My joy knew no bounds, even though I have no clue how to be a tiger mom or even a kitten mom for that matter. Let me do my bit for the bloke, I thought. I put it to tune. I sang him the whole verse, overjoyed to learn that I still remembered it. He repeated Kabie Kabie, now to tune! Me and the maid sang it to him as a lullaby for the next two days.
And then, nothing. Over and out. Gone. Kabie Kabie is now a memory, thankfully on my videocam for posterity. Re has moved on.
Two days later, a proud mom in the music class told me about 20-word sentences that her daughter is currently speaking and getting stars for.
So much for fantasizing about poetry!