My daughter is no ordinary girl. She is barely nine months and she loves to read and write already. The other day, she crawled to the farthest side of the bed where my pen, magazine, and journal were idling. She picked up the pen, smiled a defiant smile, and gobbled half of the pen into her tiny mouth and started grazing over it. I held her and forced the pen out of her mouth. Luckily, the pen was intact.
I hurriedly kept her on the bed and started cleaning my beloved pen. This is when I discovered my daughter’s talent for reading. Giggling, stuttering she crawled again to the other end, picked the magazine, stared at the anti-acne ad, and with a single swoop of her right hand split the page into two and started chewing it. I thumped her back and made her spit the page. Then I thanked almighty that it was magazine, not my journal, that she intended to read; for there were things written in it that I didn’t want her to read so soon.
It is 5:30 in the morning and my both hands are busy at work. With the left I’m rocking the cradle in which my tiny tot is drowsing like a cub; with the right I’m scribbling these words in my daily journal. It is still dark outside and, yes, I’ve not turned on the lights as my cub finds it dauntingly uncomfortable to sleep with the lights on. So I sit close to the cradle, turn on the portable study lamp by my portable writing desk and begin to write.
My entire body is wobbling as my left hand is busy at the cradle; therefore, the fonts of my handwriting resemble an ancient script still hidden beneath the layers of earth. But rocking the cradle I don’t feel any annoyance, and my alien fonts also don’t bother me. The words are slowly pouring into the empty lines.
Day after day I hope for my little one to grow up somewhat faster. I eagerly wait for the day when she would speak to me, express what she feels, and……….. I’ve to switch off the lamp and rock the cradle with both the hands. She has started whining and shifting in the cradle. See you soon.