Category: Life

Why my Father can’t go on a Picnic and other Issues

The father is in mourning. Why? Because he can’t go on a picnic if he wants to. That’s why.

You see, the parents moved to a new home and an unnamed fear gripped me – that would mean that all the junk stored in the lofts of the current home would just move to the new home. That has been the modus operandi for years. This is also the reason the house looks like this:

https://nourishncherish.wordpress.com/2008/03/25/the-colourful-house-by-the-daughter-of-the-colour-blind-father/

Obviously, the siblings had been harboring the same misgivings for they swooped in and convinced them that they would help out with the move.

The parents’ home has clutter mostly of the educational variety. There is enough material for anyone wanting to give a speech on any topic. Do you want to refer to a newspaper article that appeared in 1983 where the education minister’s credentials were questioned? No problem. The Father has it cut and stored somewhere. Do you want to know the speech that Jawaharlal Nehru gave in 1952? No problem, the cuttings are there in one of the 53 boxes with boxed clippings on the loft behind the typewriter somewhere. When questioned, he claims that that is the secret behind his stellar speeches, and also why schools still come to him to deliver speeches long after he has retired. That is also how the clutter built up over the years.

The problem during the shifting arose due to the differences in philosophy between the children and the parents. If the Father’s mantra was ‘When in doubt, store it in the loft’, ours was ‘When in doubt, throw it away!’

I called a few days later and the father moaned into the phone. I asked him what the matter was, and he said, “What is the point? Everything is gone ma! Your brother and sister threw everything away!”

We had expected a certain heartache for his missing collectables.”Yes appa I know! Enjoy a clutter free house!” I said with a trifle too much optimism.

“You don’t know ma! I can’t even go on a picnic.”

I had no idea that de-cluttering could derail picnicking plans like this.
“Why?”

“They threw away a fantastic tiffin carrier. A stainless steel one. It had 7 compartments and could hold sambhar, rasam, curry, kootu, appalam, rice and payasam!”

Why one would carry a full fledged South Indian meal full of diluted curries that run all over your plate on a picnic was beyond me, but I shelved the q for a moment and asked him to tell me more. I remember the ghastly thing – it was the height of a small tree and had 7 boxes placed one on top of the other.

“When was the last time you took the tiffin carrier on a picnic appa?”

“That is the not the point, I could have.”

“Yes appa – are you planning on going on a picnic?”

“That is not the point! And why would I go for a picnic with your mother now?”

“Okay….then?”

“But the tiffin carrier was a solid one.”

I felt sorry for the man. We had, after all, thrown out all but a few of his shirts and pants. So, I told him, “You know what? If you really need a tiffin carrier, go and buy yourself one and go on a picnic.”

“That is not the point!”

When a phrase like that pops up 3 times in 4 sentences, one questions the point.
“Okay – what is the point then?”

“The point is, if I had that tiffin carrier, I could have gone on a picnic with a splendid meal! And now, I can’t.”

I had to agree with his impeccable logic.

“Yes appa and you could have sat by the shade of a tree and listened to that old Gramaphone record while reading ‘Discovery of India’ by Jawaharlal Nehru”

“Discovery of India -ooooh!” and he went off to moan about the loss of the splendid book.

Frothing Filter Coffee

Ask any South Indian Brahmin who loves his coffee about Filter Coffee and you will catch him at his explanatory best. The rambling man starts his coffee train with enthusiasm and stops at no stations – no Sir! Not till he has exhausted his considerable coffee knowledge can he stop. Then, there are those who love the coffee but not really the talking type: the Grunters – these men have produced nothing but grunts as responses all their life, but the filter kaapi makes them blossom. They love it and will show you what grunt love is. I don’t suppose anyone has spent any time studying Grunt quotients (they should), but if they did, they’d notice some grunts have a certain amiability to it, while others are clearly signalling you to shup up. I digress to the topic of Grunters when in fact I want to talk about Filter Kaapi.

Point being that I am married to a coffee lover. While he does not insist on his cuppa in the morning, I can see the joy he gets when he spots a steel tumbler full of the frothing filter coffee.

I don’t blame the process. It is designed to titillate the nostrils and get even the non-coffee lovers to get just a little interested. That is why I put up with it. The coffee filter I mean. I will say this though – That blasted bit of twisted metal is designed to test the limits of patience on Gautama Buddha.

Before I get him the coffee frothing at the top like this:

I am frothing at the mouth like a bear whose honey comb just bit him:

By the time the coffee made its way to his mouth, I have only sustained the following injuries:
1) Slopped burning water over at least one finger
2) Spoilt my dress with a teeny bit of the mucky mixture that is coffee powder and chicory and boiling water.
3) Burnt my fingers while trying to dislodge the top portion of the coffee filter with the bottom portion
4) Bruised my ego with the fact that I can’t make coffee without making the kitchen counter look like a war zone when I can pull off whole meals with half the mess.

Here is the process: (For those interested : http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Indian_filter_coffee)
1) Wiggle nose at coffee powder
2) Take a bit of coffee powder and put it in the top portion of the filter.
3) To be truly successful, one must never be complacent and so it is with the coffee filter. If it sits smugly on the bottom, it won’t drip. So, it has to ‘sit on one butt’
4) Then take scalding water and slop it down over the top and half close the filter. Fully close, and the top part may get comfortable. Make sure that the lid will get some of the mucky mixture to spill over (onto your finger holding the filter preferably).
6) Gently tap a number of times with a spoon till you hear the steady drip-drip from within. If you don’t hear the drip-drip sound, holler at anyone talking in the near vicinity to keep quiet and try again.
7) The flaming coffee decoction is now ready. You can now use the liquid in the bottom to make coffee. But before that, you have to surmount the task of holding the insanely hot filter with a deathly grip and twisting the top and bottom portions.
8) If you are sufficiently undamaged after this, just pour this and some milk to prepare coffee.
9) Wipe that grimace from the face and give coffee.

I like Tea.

Olympic Jazz

Olympic Jazz

The general boasting of nations in the Olympic arena was too much for me. Not to mention that every single interview underlines the age. ‘Only 16 and so poised’
‘Barely 17 and already making the world sit up’

What’s the point of all this? Makes me feel like an aging rhinoceres whose rampage is slowing and hair is graying.

So, I turned to Music – I have been listening to Jazz on the radio. I am no Music Maestro (Apart from my performing on All India Radio a couple of times: https://nourishncherish.wordpress.com/2006/10/16/background-music/) I have no credentials in the Music department. Yet, the Jazz spurred me to heights I hadn’t imagined. I would listen to a random song played by a Brazilian or a Spanish artist I hadn’t heard of earlier and words would leap into my mouth. There I was singing of Love and Life and Heartbreak with perfectly fitting words.

It was too good to be true. And then I realised what was going on. Everytime I had one of those flashes, some brilliant music director in India had already whacked the tune. All the old brain was doing was retrieving the cached data from the rusted corners and belting them out again. For some shining moments, I had envisioned my creative side flowing and A.R.Rahman coming to me for lyrics and tips. Sigh…

So, in the absence of seeing myself as the shining beacon to the music world, I have decided to devote my talents to analyzing our recent performance in the Olympics.

Some folks have come up analysis such as Medals per billion people, Medals ranked by GDP etc.

http://www.motherjones.com/media/2012/07/summer-olympics-medal-gdp-charts (the bubbles at the bottom of the chart represent India)

http://www.usnews.com/news/blogs/rick-newman/2012/08/10/the-us-olympic-medal-count-isnt-as-impressive-as-it-looks?google_editors_picks=true

Gapminder.org is a pretty interesting place to while away your time with stats and graphs by the way.

But nobody sees the bucking pace that India is setting.
This is US’s performance in the Olympics over the past 20 years:

THIS is India’s:

Look at that graph and wipe the Usain Bolts and Michael Phelpses from your mind and tell me India is going the right way. (0-4 in 20 years, but nobody can deny that that trend is what we are looking for)

Slimy Brazil Sprout Rice Recipe

Given the recent claim to fame my flaming Slimy Brazil Sprout Rice has received; I have decided to share the recipe with my readers. You are welcome.

Ingredients:
Brazil sprout (You can either ask any Brazilian where to get them or mine through some really dense cabbage farms to find these. If either of these methods don’t work for you, you can ask for Brussel sprouts instead)
Snails or Earthworms (Snails preferred)
Yucky vegetables

Method:
Chase the snails as fast as you can – actually as fast as they would go, and collect the slime they leave behind. Scoop into a cup and set aside.
Cut the yucky vegetables into a size of your liking
Crush your spirit along with the snails slime
Mix them all together with rice and cook in a pressure cooker.
Serve it hot with a dollop of Ghee to your daughter.

My daughter’s teacher probably thinks I am an ogre who lives in a swamp and gathers mush and slime to make the vegetable rice for her and I don’t blame her. This is what my daughter had written when asked to write a paragraph about food choices.

My mom makes Vegetable rice. It is a rice I hate because it has vegetables. Anyone who knows me well knows that I hate yucky vegetables. Sometimes she puts brazil sprouts and that’s the worst because to me, brazil sprouts is a mix of all the vegetables. Also my mom makes me eat a really slimy vegetable and watches me until I’m done. She said she knows I don’t like it. Now thats just being mean. It would be a little better if my rice doesn’t have the vegetables. Even though I don’t like them I have to eat. That is why I hate vegetable rice.

The teacher has asked for a substitute word for ‘yucky’ and has corrected Brazil to Brussel.

Teacher’s comment: Fun to read! Great description 🙂

If anybody has some kind words of consolation to say to me, please head on over to the swamp where I am languishing in the mush collecting ingredients for dinner.

Potato Vs Radish Miming Competition

A Gujarati lady (let’s call her Geeta Ben) comes in and helps me with the cooking once in a while. She talks in what she thinks is Hindi and I do the same. I think my Hindi is better though. I told her to use very little oil and no sugar in her dishes. The ‘No sugar’ was a bit of a blow to her, but she bore it stoically, shook her head and added a disclaimer that she was not sure how the dishes would turn out without sugar and very little oil. She tried anyway. They turned out to be fabulous.

The usual fare is some chappatis, a few aloo parathas for the daughter and a side dish or two. I don’t think our conversations can bear any more than that.

A sample of our conversation is presented for your reference:

Once our small talk is complete Geeta Ben asks for “Aadu” (‘Aadu’ in Tamil means ‘goat’ incidentally. I can be pretty sharp when I want to and rule out the possibility of Geeta Ben asking for a goat to make a vegetarian dinner. )

“Aadhu?”

“Haan aadhu – soonth na adhu”

Apart from the “Haan”, the rest pretty much washed over me. I try to clear my fuzzy brain by guessing that she has the chillies, she has the garlic, it must be ginger that she is asking for and say “You mean Adhrak?” Years of fantasizing about ‘Adhrak Chai’ leave me in no doubt that Adhrak is ginger. But Geeta Ben disagrees.

“Na – aadhu – aaisa” and she mimes a ginger for me.

I’ve played dumb-charades in my time. (I can’t say I am stellar, but I manage. I have some blogs on Dumb-C that I will have to get to one day), but I have to admit ‘Ginger’ would have had me stumped. How do you enact a piece of Ginger for the audience? Yet Geeta Ben doesn’t flinch. She gives off a performance of a carrot, but I reach for the ginger anyway. She congratulates me on my quick wit (in Gujarati) and I beam. She could well be calling me a dumb ass but she would not do that. Geeta Ben is too sweet for that – she has an innocence about her that makes it hard for people of her caliber to call people dumb-asses.

And so it goes: Geeta Ben gets her laugh; we get tasty food.

Some friends of ours had come to stay with us for a few days and it so happened that Geeta Ben wanted to come in at a time we were not sure we would be home. But our friends(Mr and Mrs Friend) said they would be home then and off we all went after telling Geeta Ben to hop on over. I could have told her that my friends would be home, but I did not want to risk saying something like that on the phone. Once before I got chatty on the phone with her and she thought she was not supposed to come and went off to the Temple. So, Geeta Ben knocked and my friend opened the door. Poor Geeta Ben’s smile went halfway through and then recognition hit. Her smile froze when Mrs Friend welcomed her into the house. She first tried peering past her to see if she had the right house. The decor seemed to indicate the right house.  She asked her, “Shoma Ben?” Mrs friend assured her it was my house and welcomed her once again.

Poor Geeta Ben took a few steps into the house and stopped hard in her tracks. See, she could take a friend opening the door, but she hadn’t really bargained for the next scene. There was Mr Friend lounging around on the sofa with a glazed look on his face in his banian. Mr Friend was working, and when working, he dons a look that stumps the best of us. It knocked the wind out of Geeta Ben. She ran past him into the kitchen and took refuge in her work. Just when Geeta Ben put her mind to rest and started off with the dishes, Mrs Friend conveyed my request to make Mooli Parathas(radish parathas).

“Mooli?”

“Haan Mooli.”

“Nahin aloo na aloo”

“No – aloo nahin – mooli paratha”

“Magar mien Aloe paratha hee banathee hewn”, (I always make aloo parathas) says Geeta Ben making round ball like movements with hands – falling to her time-tested habit of miming potatoes when in the presence of the weak Hindied. The miming catches on and Mrs Friend tries miming a radish.

 

It was during the radish vs potato miming competition that the husband walked in and Geeta Ben breathed again. At least she was in the right house. She knows better than to ask for clarifications to the husband in Hindi. An encounter in Hindi with the husband is not for the weak of heart. She makes a brave face that all is not lost in the house and Radishes or Potatoes, Mr & Mrs Friend or no, she will make what she is told before the husband starts explaining in Hindi.

She almost hugged me when I came into the kitchen and half apologetically asked me whether Mooli parathas was what I conveyed. I nodded and her heart resumed beating at a normal speed again. Bless Geeta Ben!

Yammer Yammer Chatter Chatter EMail Email IM IM

I heard about Salesforce’s product, Chatter, as a means of evaluating employees a few weeks ago.
http://www.fastcompany.com/1842019/evaluating-employees-based-on-influence

The product is supposed to add a tangible component to the intangible factor of employee chatter and tried to put an algorithm around influence. Chatter is hardly the only one trying to address an office audience. Yammer is trying something similar too.

Are we adding yet another source of noise around ourselves to make us busier than we already are? We maybe – according to one study an average corporate worker sends/receives 105 emails a day. It looks to me like we are over-communicating already.

http://bits.blogs.nytimes.com/2012/07/08/life%E2%80%99s-too-short-for-so-much-e-mail/?smid=li-share

Not to mention that instant messaging over Skype(or similar) is used over and above the emails. Instant messaging requires one logged on at all times to be abreast of the fast flowing message river. A few days away is enough to overwhelm the stoutest of souls when they get back.

What about influence: Does every job function require influence? I am not sure. I don’t think every single job profile requires influence around the office block.

Will products such as these affect the introverts in the office or help introverts since they can resort to technology instead of meeting people? It takes all kinds of people to contribute in their unique and creative ways in order to achieve something.  Can we generalize and assume that only those actions with influence are important.

Ten years from now, we may have embraced the office chatter and influence algorithms for them to become a part of our daily lives, or it may not have gone well or we may have moved on to entirely different paradigms 3 times over.

Am I a busybody or am I busy?

Everyone loves being busy. My son, for example, spends many hours being busy. For one so young( a year old); one would wonder why he is this busy. All one has to do is walk into our home when we are loading the dishwasher to see the domestic chores he has to handle. (Try constantly climbing onto the dishwasher lid when the relentless mother is pulling you away from it, or face the frustration of having his unloading efforts thwarted at every stage) He has the additional responsibility of identifying objects of a questionable nature and then tinkering with them. Working on finding questionable items of high impact require several skills at once. Tinkering with the empty battery charger, for instance, is a low-medium voltage exclamation mark from the parent, opening the vaseline bottle and looking like a shimmering idol in the evensong after liberal application a medium exclamation – the real crowd pullers are the remote and the phone.

The point is: he is busy.

The daughter is busy too. Her priorities are different from the son’s, but she is busy nevertheless. She is busy playing with her friends, busy making her room a mess, busy making cards that her callous mother throws away.

Which brings me to the husband and I. We are busy too.

Being busy is exhilarating. Makes you feel wanted and keeps you occupied, which is why so many of us fall into the busy trap.

http://opinionator.blogs.nytimes.com/2012/06/30/the-busy-trap/

The article, like many others, made me stop and ponder about our lives. How much of what we do is necessary and how much of it is noise? How do we identify the chaff from the grain when we are busy running after the chaff and the grain in the whipping winds?

Carwaas Saar Carwaas Carwaas!

I got into a friend’s car and they both apologized for the mess in the car and removed one toy from the seat. I cringed. Everything else about the car was spotless. No rubber-bands and dried leaves on the floor, no spare jackets on the seats, no books peeping out of every pocket – not even a chocolate wrapper on the floor and they apologized for the mess. I made a mental note to compose something proportionate when I gave them a lift. I don’t think mere words are enough. The cars interiors and exteriors have led to intense arguments about what is a reasonable mess quotient for a car in our family. Ever the sensible voice in the family, the daughter suggested that we take an adventure of sorts and get the car cleaned by going to that fun car wash down the street. So, off we went jibber-jabbering the whole way.

The automatic carwash is the one thing that had my eyes positively popping out in all directions when I first came to the US. Perhaps I have told readers about my brother and his love for vehicles on wheels. For refreshers, please hop on over to his blogpost – if that doesn’t convince you about his love for vehicles, I don’t know what will

http://my-unused-mind.blogspot.com/2010/01/falcon-to-burgeran-autograph.html

Point is that as long as I was with him, I had to just take my vehicle and go wherever I was going. He’d have it cleaned, he’d fill the petrol tank (except on one occasion that I shall blog about soon), turn on the ignition and hand over the vehicle to me with a longing in his eyes. I would then get on and simply move-it with a wave to the dear fellow. Moving to the US has altered all that. There is no brother at hand to take care of my car for me. The car needs washing, I wash it. Sigh! From the opening paragraph it is all too clear that I am not doing a stellar job at it either.

The daughter and I enjoyed the carwash and on our way back I couldn’t help telling her about how I felt when I went for my first carwash in the US.

“You mean – you have never seen an automatic carwash till you came to the US? You’re kidding right?” she said incredulity dripping out of every syllable. I then explained car washes to her as done in India.

A carwash in India has as many flavors as the spices and the industry thrives on a number of best practices. Only none of them are documented.

The marketing slogan used is:

Saar Saaar Saar Saar – carwaas saar carwaas saar carwaas

Volume:

Adjusted to traffic and surroundings. Decibel levels should allow for marketing slogan to be heard inside rolled up car windows.

Location:

Some places I know have “saloon caarwaas”, “jest fast carwaas” and regular deals. The saloon carwashes are the ones done with foaming soap and water. While this is done with a regular service, the owner has the option of sipping tea (hand-delivered with a finger in your cup) or leaving the car there. Best done with reliable dealers or mechanics, for we all know that spare parts are hard to come by.

As for the Jest Fast carwaas variety, I’ve seen them done in minutes while waiting for the traffic signal to turn green. A bunch of guys throw some water on the car and another bunch climb on with towels and scrub clean. One time the signal turned green and the guy on the front windscreen was not done yet. He kept wiping while the impatient mistress honked to let him know. This guy should be identified and recruited by any organization worth its salts, I have always maintained. For Rs. 5, he simply wouldn’t let a bird dropping go. He scrubbed and scrubbed. He screamed to the driver – “Madam – keep moving! I will scrub and then jump off at the next signal. Don’t worry!”

So, the lady drove gingerly with this guy squatting on the hood and scrubbing the windscreen with all his might. It is a pity I hadn’t a cell-phone to snap a picture with me right away, but I shall always, always carry that image with me.

As expected the daughter guffawed at the whole story and said she preferred the automatic variety. I was not so sure.

The Best Laid Plans of the Brave & Hopeful

She was 3 and 1/2 years old when we first sat and watched a movie together in a movie theatre. The movie was Ratatouille. That was the daughter and that is if you don’t count one failed attempt. I don’t count that because I placed it on the record that she was not ready for a movie at 8 months. A Baby Einstein airing – possibly, but a Tamil movie definitely not. The husband, mother-in-law both insisted that she would fall asleep within seconds of the movie starting. Of course, nobody listens to the mother, who was not interested in the movie in the first place, and off we went. I hear the movie was good. I was there for the title sequence and then for one song that she liked to shake her bum and dance to. The rest was spent in the corridor next to the tea and coffee vending machines on the floor. One vendor felt so sorry for me; he actually came and offered me a free samosa. He started it. After that, there was no stopping me. In regular intervals, I went for samosas, tea, coffee and ice-cream and still the crowd did not come pouring out of the theatre. Which was when I thought of a topic that would immensely help Tamil movie makers – Brevity. The movie wore on for 3 hours and not a moment of background music time was wasted. I wasn’t even in the theatre and I had a head-ache.

Given the scar of events past, one would think I would hesitate to brave a movie with Tucky clocking in at a year old. I did hesitate. But Disney Pixar’s pull is far too great. After considerable thought, we selected the 10:15 p.m. show of ‘Brave’. With a one year old, sleep times are unpredictable at best. So, I hung onto his eyelids from early evening onwards and made sure he did not sleep. Then gave him a warm bath laced with sweet vapors to soothe and soothe like no man has ever been soothed before. Never one to leave anything to chance, I played him some Mozart as well. I must admit Mozart makes me incredibly sleepy too. So, I was yawning football sized yawns by the time the movie started, but little Tucky was fast asleep and I was hopeful.

I wonder whether you have seen great strategists in action. I have heard of them. Now, I mustn’t boast, but we certainly gave the best of them a run for their money at that theatre. We took in a bulky carseat because I wasn’t going to tickle a sleeping dragon just when ‘Brave’ was starting. I had with me to use at a moment’s notice the following:

1) Thermos Flask with warm milk

2) Blanket to tuck and pat

3) I couldn’t really use the Mozart music as people might have noticed the difference in sound tracks in the theatre.

Finally, no tumbling into the best seats for us. I carefully selected an aisle seat ready to take flight to the corridors at the slightest whimper. (We are extremely conscious of people’s experience of a movie and don’t want to spoil their shows with crying babies)

So, there we were – trailer after trailer came on and just when I popped off to sleep myself, the movie started. I wonder why – but just before the movie starts, they give you an eerie minute of silence that completely ruins the plans of the parents of sleeping babies in carseats. See – the constant drone of noise is the trick. Just keep up with the trailers and the music and the baby sleeps on. Why introduce a moment of suspense before the movie?. Then, the slightest noise seems jarring. No one consults me while doing these things – sigh! After all those hours of Mozart and sweetening soothing almond oil showers, he stirred when the movie started after this tense moment of silence.

Without hope there is no life. I continued hoping that he’d fall back to sleep, but he gave a great chuckle and an energetic giggle at a horse on the screen and settled down to watch. I exchanged a meaningful glance at the husband and we agreed to stay as long as he kept quiet. I must say, the dear was absolutely charming. He watched it like he understood the storyline perfectly. Clapped when people cheered, laughed when people laughed.

Towards the very end, he grew a bit antsy at which point a warm milk bottle was shoved into his mouth and he watched with interest again after that. It helps that the movie was only 90 minutes long. That was the story of his first movie.

 

Dads At Disney: DAD

There is a dull resignation when you mention Disneyland to the husband. A few years earlier, he would protest vehemently when you broach the topic of another trip. The reaction has watered down over the years. Initially, he was only up against me, the Disney lover. Then, the daughter joined the Disney lovers’ group of the family circle. I am glad to say that we added another member on our most recent trip to Disneyland. The son loved gawking at the sights and dancing to the music. He gulped in the sights and clapped even when he had to fight sleep to do so or get up in between to clap.

The children were lucky enough to spend Father’s Day at Disneyland with their beloved father. There we were, ride after ride, attraction after attraction on a hot summer’s day. I must say that after the initial resistance to Disneyland, the husband rises to the occasion. Disney spins its magic and wraps him round. He transforms into a strategizing monster when it comes to Disneyland.

We had been to Disneyland with the visiting neices and the Fathers were caught catching a quick rest! The poor men had spent the bulk of the day pushing their children around on strollers, running from one place to another, buying ice-cream after ice-cream and of course carrying the little ones in turn.

Disneyland on Father’s Day was amazing. We had fathers’ wearing hilarious t-shirts.
One said DADD: Dads Against Daughters Dating.
Another family had planned their clothing to say:
Dad: Father of all Things
Mom: Mother of all Things
They had three children who wore t-shirts:
Thing 1
Thing 2
Thing 3
They looked so wonderful posing for pictures.

We had what we call an efficient trip. We attacked more attractions than we thought possible with 4 young children in tow. But the day was hot and we looked forward to winding down to watch the fireworks at night. There we were, standing in front of the Castle waiting for the magic to begin when the daughter asked her father if she could sit on his shoulder and watch the fireworks. I took her aside and told her that she was getting a little too tall for that. The husband had not the heart to tell her that and he complied. I don’t know which is better – watching the fireworks or watching the reflection of the fireworks in the eyes of the children. She was so thrilled. She made a wish every time a wishing star fire cracker flew past. She glowed in the joy of the moment and was so happy to be there – with her loved ones at the happiest place on Earth. As the fireworks wound down, she kissed her father on the cheek and said,”I love you Appa. Happy Father’s Day!”

The next time, it will probably be Tucky’s turn at the old shoulders, but this time was hers…