Archimedes principle

Daivik noticed that when he entered the bathtub, some water always flowed out. When he shared this finding with me, I said, "this is called Archimedes Principle". He asked me to repeat it and I pronounced it out for him slowly. He let the heaviness of the phrase sink in before asking what it meant. I said "When you get into the bathtub, 18 kilos of water will come out, and depending on how full the tub is, some of it might flow out of the tub". He got excited immediately and added, "and when I get out, all that water will come back in". I said, "yes, that is correct, but not all water will come back because some has overflowed the tub and it cannot get back inside".

I don't know how much he understood, but he thought about it for a minute and gave his verdict : "It is so funny". 

Hate, and Love

Daivik was glued to the television for some days. In the last four days he watched more TV than in the preceding 40 months, mostly cartoon channels. Presently, he was fussing again over food but wanted to play with me. In one of those irrational moments of parental stubbornness, I told him he can play with me only if he finishes his breakfast (a strategy strictly not recommended!). He tried his tricks, made a face, whimpered a bit. And then he said, "I hate you". I stopped on my tracks. This word was new.  I asked him if he knew what it meant. With an accuracy that was at once alarming and astounding, he said "It is the opposite of I love you". It was not amusing. I asked him where he learnt it, and he said "from TV".

Okay, television OFF.

Later in the day, when I was busy with something else, he ran to me, hugged my neck and said, "I love you". I just nodded. He then taught me : "Appa, when somebody says I love you, you have to reply, I love you too".

Pradeep

We were visiting an acquaintance  who heads a school for children near our place in Coimbatore. Most of the kids are from the surrounding villages.  As we were coming out of our meeting, we saw lot of kids playing in the ground. One particular kid was standing behind a tree, half-hidden, and watching us leave the building. Daivik was dressed in a bright blue superman T-shirt. Perhaps this attracted the kid, perhaps not. As we approached the tree, he ran forward, thrust something into Daivik's hands and ran back. Daivik held it out to me. It was a toy car (with two of the wheels broken). I turned around to look at the kid, who was standing shyly behind the tree. He was about Daivik's height and build, bare-footed, all the buttons of the shirt open and ample evidence of carefree hours spent playing in the dust. Most impressively, he was sporting a wide grin, showing all his teeth, large and impossibly white. And the sparkle in those eyes ! It can be so luminous only on somebody  unencumbered  - yet - to the vagaries of life. Or reached its beyonds.  I called him forward, he hesitated. I told Daivik to go introduce himself and thank him for the gift. Daivik, generally hesitant with strangers, ran forward, shook his hands and said "I'm Daivik". The kid said "I'm Pradeep". I frantically scouted my pockets for something to miraculously materialize, a chocolate, a toy, anything...my fingers touched the wallet and I froze. The wads of currency was so totally meaningless in front of the child's smile and his random act of kindness.

It was getting late. We waved good-byes and left. I looked back as we turned the corner, Pradeep was still standing there, waving back to us cheerfully. Pradeep, your smile and sparkling eyes have been a blessing. I do not know why you chose to give your gift to Daivik, but I know that the cheerfulness of your smile and sparkle of your eyes will fade from our memories with time. I do hope these few words capture - and retain - a bit of that luster.  

disc dosa

The pan should be hot enough now. To just the right degree. Rashi tests it by sprinkling a bit of cold water. The little droplets sizzle up as they encounter a hot flat surface and noisily bounce around, simultaneously shrinking at an alarming rate. Very soon, they vanish into a nothingness, leaving behind a final hiss and a little vapor  Rashi judges it as hot enough. She takes the batter, pours it in the pan and expertly spreads it around in a circular motion. It makes a perfectly round dosa, 15 cm in diameter and 2 mm in thickness. The batter itself has undergone a fair amount of soaking, grinding and most importantly fermenting over the last 48 hours to reach its current stage of near perfection. A few minutes later she turns the dosa over. This is a critical moment of truth. If the preceding preparation has been correct, it will show itself now. Sure enough, the whole thing comes out in one sweep and as she turns it over, it shines with a golden brown hue. She turns off the heat. Now as the pan cools at a predictable rate, the dosa will become crisp. And stiff. Like a disc. Like how Daivik prefers. Like how superman would want.

She takes the dosa to Daivik and puts it on his plate. "Here is your disc dosa", she says, sporting a satisfied smile. He gives a disinterested look, takes an ant sized bite and says "yuck". To rub in extra salt, he adds "I don't want this, I want bread".