Who’s the lallu now?

Lately, what with the marital separation, impending divorce, ongoing shift to a new house, closure of the company and of the family trust, a general feeling of helplessness and lack of control, and uncertainty in my own life and future, it would be fair to say that I have been going through some rough time, or at least as close a claim to rough as my privileged existence would allow me to appropriate for myself. And it shows in the way I have been reacting to stuff I would normally either have ignored or reacted to in an altogether different manner.

Last night was another incident that brought this to light. It so happened that there was a huge tantrum thrown at the bear household (her sixth for those who are counting, the last one being thrown as far as 23 December 2021), and it was revealing in what it taught me. Then, there was this morning’s race, which brought fresh lessons.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. Let me begin at the beginning.

At around bedtime last night, as she got ready to say goodnight, Kymaia peeked into my laptop and spotted a mathematics problem that I was working on (if you must know, I was building a cost-sheet for a construction project for a client). She sidled up between the table and my belly to sit down on my lap and asked me what I was doing. I told her I was doing some maths to figure out how much something cost and how much it sold for, the balance being the profit, which is the entire objective of a commercial enterprise. I explained with some examples and then told her that once you have a formula that revenue minus expenses equals profits, you can play around to find out other things. So, for example, if I know how much I want to make as profit and I know how much I can sell something for, it would be easy to figure out what is the most I can spend on making or acquiring it. It seemed that she got this part quickly and so, we decided to test out this understanding with numbers. I asked her what would the profit be if it cost me Rs.9 to make something and I sold it at Rs.12. She answered it in a jiffy: Rs.3. Then, I turned it around and asked that if I wanted to make Rs.3 as profit and knew I could sell something for Rs.12, what should be the most I could spend on making it? This stumped her. We spent a good 10 minutes on this. I even wrote ’12-3=?’ on the board, but she just could not wrap her head around it. I was getting increasingly frustrated. I asked her, finally, ‘Can you just tell me what 12-3 equals?’ And when she said she needed the board and the marker and could not work it out in her head, I cracked. I called her lallu.

A little note about this word lallu is called for before proceeding. You see, as a modern parent, I quickly realised that I needed a word to use when I needed to point out that she did something silly or idiotic and that I cannot, for the life of me, understand how someone so smart could be so stupid. Obviously, calling her ‘stupid’ or ‘idiot’ was out of the question, and ‘silly’ was used too endearingly in ‘Winnie the Pooh’ books. So, I had to find a word that was mild enough in its actual meaning, but stinging enough by conditioning for her to feel the bite if I were to use it, however frugally. So, I hunted around my vocabulary and my own memories of childhood to come up with this word, lallu, meaning both, a lovable pet name for a child and an idiot. I liked it. I have used this word ever since, whenever frustrated with Kymaia about whatever it was that I was frustrated with her for.

Unfortunately, for someone who has heard this word used very very rarely and only as a sharp admonishment and an expression of her father’s disappointment with her, this word has extremely strong and negative connotations for little Kym. Coupled with the fact that for her, at this age, her father’s validation is more important than perhaps breathing or eating, this word, when said in anger from my mouth, stings and hurts more than I could have hurt her were I to actually slap her across the face, which of course I shall never do. That said, I remained completely unaware of the impact of me using this word on her, and have in the past used it whenever I thought the situation demanded. I used it last night. I called her a lallu for not being able to mentally solve ’12-3=?’. For not being as smart as I thought she ought to be. For disappointing me. For not being the human I expected her to be. All of this, without realising how selfish and cruel I was being to this sensitive child’s delicate (and at that point, fragile) soul.

As a result of my outburst and calling her lallu, she threw a godawful tantrum, throwing pillows, tearing up (indeed properly cutting up with scissors) all the cards and notes she had received not just from me, but from her Mamma and Masi too, locking herself in her room, screaming, lying on the floor, refusing to eat, refusing to brush her teeth, refusing to prepare for the race the next day (today morning), and just acting completely out of her mind. I told her she was overreacting (by now, my dear readers, you would have realised that I know sweet eff all of how to get people to calm down, because asking them to calm down when they are banging doors on your face and cutting up cards is literally the worst course of action if a calm person is the desired outcome; and now you know why I have had two marriages and could not hold on to a single one too), that she will realise the next day morning that all this was over a simple mental arithmetic problem she could solve in her sleep but could not because of lack of focus, that she should see how silly she looked if she could see herself in the mirror, and that she is blowing things out of proportion. Predictably, none of this worked.

Eventually, her mother took over, and as only she can, calmed her down, wiped her tears, picked her up, and carried her downstairs where she lives. She fed her, cleaned her, changed her, and put her to sleep gently, bereft of her anger and while not giggling like her usual self, at least without the feelings of angst and irritation she previously exhibited.

This morning, Kymaia was woken up by her mother at 0400h and having brushed, combed, cleaned, and fed, she was despatched upstairs at 0430h, where she found me ready to leave for the race that was scheduled (The Trinity International School Hill Half Marathon, in which she was entered for 5,000m). She changed, put on her Walkman, and accompanied me to the basement to the parking, from whence we drove to the pickup point for her team (there were 4 other runners, 2 pacers, and another spectator like me), and having duly loaded the vehicle with the participants and their bags, we sped to the race venue. Throughout the entire ride, she spoke nary a word. She just hummed along with the songs in her head and stared out the window into the darkness. I could see she was ‘in the zone’ and I was happy, because I know competitive performers prefer to be there before their competition, whether a written exam or a middle distance race.

We reached the venue, and she warmed up, refusing water or Electral, and removing her headphones only when warming up with the team. Even while posing for photos, she appeared distant. Anyway, it was soon 0630 and her group was flagged off. I saw her turning the corner and settled down for what I thought would be about an hour. Why would I do that when her PB for 5,000m is 34m:05s, which she set at the PCHM on 05 December 2021? Because this was an impossible course. You have to see it to believe it. Steep inclines, hairpin bends, tough climbs, everything that she had not done. Prior to this, all her racing had been on flat roads or on tracks made for athletics. This was perhaps the toughest challenge faced by her. And, as I soon realised, many others, because I started seeing people dropping out and returning, some walking, some on two-wheelers, dejected, defeated, and beaten by the mountain. I knew Kym was a fighter and would not quit. But I had resigned myself for the 50-60 minutes mark.

At around 25 minutes, I thought I’d just walk up the course and see other athletes struggle, and perhaps get in my morning walk too. As I started up the hill, the angle of the slope hit me. Hard. This was ridiculous. I’d need first gear on my car to make it up this hill. What kind of timing is anyone going to post on this course? I also thought, suddenly worried, that Kym might have stopped somewhere in the dark (it was not even 0700h and the sun was still hidden by the mountains), alone and scared. I quickened my pace.

And then I saw her. In her pink t-shirt, coming downhill at a pace I can only call ‘hurtling’, with even her pacer having a surprised look over his face. I raised the camera and started to film. As she zipped past me, not even noticing my presence (so engrossed she was in her run), I was stunned for a moment, and then I started running after her. I thought I’d overtake her and wait for her at the finish to photograph her. But, and I cannot tell you how hard I tried, I could not match her pace since she had already gone several dozen meters past me by the time I came to and started to sprint.

By the time I reached the finish point, she was already there, resting and sucking from her water bottle, surrounded by her newly-made ‘fans’ who wanted to high-five her and click selfies with her. As soon as she saw me, she came running and jumped onto my arms. And off we went to collect her medal and check her provisional timing. She was quite in demand, with people stopping us everywhere asking to speak to her and photograph her. Not because she earned a rank (there were professionals running at twice her speed) but because of her age and her grit. We collected our medal, then went to the buffet table and filled up our breakfast plate, and settled down to eat, getting up only when our name was called and we were summoned to the stage to receive a gift of chocolates for being the youngest participant (and still, and this is important, not the last one to finish by any stretch).

But we still needed the timing. So, off we went to the organisers (by the way, big shout out to blueBrigade for a marathon organised with the class of a golfing tournament, where everything from the arrangements to the breakfast spread was to an international standard) to ask what her timing was, only to be told the text has been sent. I realised my phone had beeped several times but I was too busy clicking photos and chatting with old friends to notice. I checked the messages, and sure enough: 33m:55s. This was amazing! I told her coach and he was ecstatic, because he said that on plain ground, she would be at least 5-6 minutes faster. I called Kymaia and told her the timing. She smiled and shyly asked me if she could tell me a ‘secret’. In our parlance, this means she wants to say something privately, not necessarily a secret. So, I picked her up and asked her to whisper it into my ears. She said in a soft but assertive voice: ‘Baba, I am not a lallu.’

I had tears in my eyes. I did not realise how much it hurt her and how badly she thought she needed to win my validation and admiration back. I was shocked at the thought that she believed that she must work to gain and keep my love and respect. I have never wanted to be a parent whose child is constantly working to not disappoint him instead of what makes her happy. So, I promised her then and there that Baba will not use this word henceforth. In fact, I had to be honest and tell her that I am going to try to not use any words that make her feel horrible. I may not always succeed, but just as she is learning to be my child, I am learning to be her father, and sometimes, we all make mistakes and that I am truly sorry to have hurt her.

And that is how I found myself standing drinks and lunch to her mother and her at The Sassy Spoon. Well, who’s the lallu now?

With the team, warming up.

With Bhole Sir, Kym’s pacer and fan.

Built for speed?

Baba and baby love.

More Baba and baby love.

Baba and baby love in the finisher frame even before the race has been flagged off.

Ready, get set, go.

Bhole Sir pushing Kym uphill.

A steep hill to climb.

Bhole Sir and Kym in full flow.

Strong finish

Strong finish

The organisers give Kym chocolates.

With Team Tarkeshwar.

The winner of 5km (Sandip) and second runner up of 21km (Vidyanand Sir).

Breakfast. Yummy!

Everyone wants to carry Kym.

Sharing ‘secrets’ with Baba bear.

The bear family celebrating with drinks & lunch at The Sassy Spoon.

Rather surprised that the idli found mention but not the lunch at the swanky restaurant!

Later edit
I don’t care what anyone says, I am boasting. I am so proud, I am unable to contain myself. Seems she came 20th out of 167 runners. That’s right. Twentieth. And among the ‘Open Female’ category, she was 5th out of 56 women who finished. If you wanted to measure my smile right now, you’d need a very very long tape. Maybe 5km long.