deviousways

It's a beautiful evening, starlit and quiet. Babe and I are walking, singing silly songs, having fun. We walk past a parked jeep and babe shouts Hi. I laugh.  Why did you do that, I ask him. It's a vehicle, it cannot talk back to you. Then Amma, he shoots back, why do cars talk in cartoons. What can I tell him, really. My all-knowing self is stumped. So I make a glib reply--cartoons are not real life, baby. Our little boy skips on, happy creature that he is. In my heart I quake, marvelling at this child, his insight. In my 35-odd years, such thoughts don't occur to me. Yet, being with this child, I learn something new every day. This is a walk I'll always remember, I think. Such moment are what memories are made of, I tell myself, feeling a warm glow, feeling secure in my role as protector, as mother. We come to a turning. It's particularly empty at this late-evening time. A teenage security guard is standing inside a small gate. Why is he staring fixedly at...