My little angel, my little imp

Smriti was fussing. She wouldn’t eat. I ran behind her, finding it difficult to keep pace with those cherubic little legs as she ran from one room to another, trying to avoid me, to avoid eating.

I knew what she wanted – all the running around she was doing was for exactly one end – the terrace.

‘Smriti…’ I called out, and she stopped, knowing what I was about to say. She turned and grinned at me. I grinned back.

‘The terrace!!!’ we cried in unison.

The little girl insisted on taking the stairs, not the elevator. I huffed and puffed as I climbed four floors to the terrace, a bowl of curd rice in hand – curd rice peppered with bits of cabbage – now that would require some extra effort to push into the little devil, I thought.

I sighed as I picked the shreds of cabbage and put them in a corner of the bowl – the girl simply refused to eat them. Why should I be right most of the times?

There was a glimmer of hope from among the clouds – literally – the moon came out of hiding. Cream, majestic, and resplendent. Shining. My saviour. To get my little angel to eat.

‘Amma, look!!’ cried my imp. ‘The moon!!!’

‘Yes, dear, the moon,’ I replied, absentmindedly.

She ran to the other corner of the terrace to have a better view.

I was losing patience.

‘Smriti,’ I called out. ‘C’mon…let me tell you a story about the moon while you eat…’ I said. Pointing my index finger up to the full moon on the sky, I said, ‘See those black spots on the moon…’

‘No!’ she interrupted.

What now?

‘The moon is here, ma..’ she said pointing directly upward from her corner of the terrace. ‘Not there!!’

I smiled.

‘Of course, Smriti….’ I said, walking towards her. ‘The moon is here.’

My little imp. She always wins.