My daughter called up today to tell me about the action in her college. They’re staging a sit-out to protest against the arbitrary, high-handed behaviour of the hostel warden and matron. Everyone is very angry about it, she tells me, very angry.
Is it really fifteen years since she came tripping into the house with her little standard-issue black shoes on the wrong feet, her pleated blue school uniform skirt generously spattered with mud, to announce that they’d done zaars in school that day?
“You did what?” my wife asked.
“Zaars. Don’t you know zaars?” she demanded, impatient with our denseness. “Like two twozaar four, three twozaar, four twozaar…?”
And is it that long since she told us, when asked how she liked her new first grade teacher, that “she’s nice, but she doesn’t TALK, she only TEACHES”?
Is it so long since we told her (secretly pleased) that detaching the head of the new Barbie doll someone had gifted her and tying it to its feet wasn’t a very nice way to treat a doll?
Fifteen years? No, that can’t be.
tingaling!
my young friend proudly shows me
her brand new cycle
1 comment:
very very endearing..:) (facebook like icon!!)
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