Our Discriminating Strength

Harshit is a little cute boy. He's not two yet, I think. He plays around in the yard of our S-block with his tri-cycle. Or some stick. Or just like that. Every passing person always spends a minute or two having a chat with Harshit. Harshit, I think, is too young to speak articulately. And I think, if he makes anything out of what grown-ups tell him, those are too imaginative and sophisticated for us grownups to understand. But, of course, all these people would still like to have a conference with little Harshit. The big surprised eyes with which he would look at you while you speak are a better treat than a standing ovation.

And all this while, looking over his activities is Harshit's granny. She's old and stooping, and is in no way less cute than Harshit. She only speaks Telugu. But talking to her has similar benifits as talking to Harshit. She won't try to understand what you're saying. And she'll nevertheless have something to say in reply. Of course, there's not much hope to making out that, unless you can pick up telugu. She never tries to be gentle to Harshit. In fact, I have found her giving him a hit or two when Harshit tends to be too naughty. Yet, Harshit runs back to her each time one of us tries to be overpaly with him. She is his great protector from all evils. I, with my moustache and serious face, really have no hope of being taken well by kids. But, sometimes, when that chap looks irresistible, I try to go close to him and say something clumsy which I suppose then to be friendly and appropriate for a man of his size. Of course, Harshit runs back to his granny's lap, whenever I try to do all that. Harshit doesn't seem to like me much.

Yesterday morning, when I was leaving S-block for lab, I saw Harshit's granny carrying him on her lap going somewhere. Harshit seemed comfortable looking puzzledly here and there. A big stream of snot oozing out of his right nostril. Well, he is the loveliest thing that's ever been in the history of mankind. I stopped for a while, and asked Harshit why he was troubling his Granma by burdening her like this. Somehow GranMa got what I was asking and started complaining that they had been out for a walk and then in the middle Harshit just started insisting that he should now be carried. Perhaps he'd seen some dog or something. It seems she told him to walk by himself but he wouldn't listen. And hence this.

All that complaint was quite false. GranMa looked perfectly comfortable carrying her grandson like that. That complaint itself was a way to express the joy she felt perhaps.

Harshit is nearly two and a fairly healthy child. He must be weighing a good 10-15 kg. If that weight had been of a bag or books, it would be a difficult one for even a young man to carry for long. A beautiful, lovely grandson is pleasure to carry on yourself, even if you are bending down with age.

We can be arbitrarily strong...but our strength chooses by itself when to show itself. :)

Funny, it is! :) :)