Everything Belated, Except Babies.

My mother has two cousins. One has recently moved to Hyderabad, the other's shifted to Lucknow. Both are vegetarians. In view of the catastrophe that this is, I vowed to amend this insult to the cuisines of both cities by visiting them and eating everything in my way. Ergo I'm in Lucknow right now with the Mater, stealing twenty minutes of laptop time from the husband of the Lucknowi Vegetarian Cousin (LVC for short) to bond with the world wide web, which I haven't seen in a while, the internet connection at home being fried for some time now.

On the train to Lucknow there was a toddler on the train with the sunniest disposition I've seen in a while. She was called Pari and allowed to run amok by her mother who, being blessed with an equally cheery nature, made it her job to explore every station the train stopped at, giving the Mater minuscule heart attacks every moment by leaving her kid unattended. I watched The Mater cringe and gasp as she saw Pari roll around the floor of the carriage, chuckling happily as she tried to eat everything, including bits of train curtain and train rod and train berth. I offered to help by babysitting. Yes, I was bored. The kid was fun and always smiling. It turned out a priceless opportunity to make further forays into child psychology, all of which were ground to the finest pulp as soon as I entered the Vegetarian Cousin's house.

The Vegetarian Cousin, it turns out, has a toddler too. This toddler defies all rules of toddlerism as far as I'm concerned. An entire evening spent in my vicinity and he still won't stop eyeing me with suspicion. He won't be fooled by normal grab-toddler's-attention games. He eyes me with derision if I try to sing to him (so does the world if I try singing to it, but we'll let it pass for the moment. I'm aggrieved.) He won't smile. He won't gurgle. So far I've managed to extract a pitying half-smile when I tried to wave a rattle at him. The only time I thought I'd made headway was when he started pummelling the mattress he was sitting on manically, and then looked at me with an inviting gleam in his eye. I followed, slapping the floor till my wrist hurt. He then lay down and gnawed on the edge of the mattress. I refused to follow suit and was coldly rejected. The Mater on the other hand has had a brilliant success rate with him, increasing my moral indignation to the point of blankout. I hate high maintenance babies. I think I shall go visit the State Museum tomorrow. And eat kebabs.

And one thing. Next time I tell you babies are interesting, kick me till it hurts.