Today, Zara, I got a glimpse into what it might be like once you've grown-up.
This afternoon, as I announced your bath, you went and sat on the ledge in our room, the one adjoining the window, and urged me to 'Besi' (pronounced 'bey-see', a word your nani keeps using with you, comes from the Gujarati 'Besi jaa', sit) You urgently slapped the warm floor next to you until I relented. Just a while back, I'd lustily read out to you, 'What is this life so full of care...' How could I refuse?
You looked rather pleased at having me next to you on this sun-bathed low seating. The late afternoon rays filtered through your hair, making it look brown, just like mine. I put my arm around little you, smiled, and said 'Hi!' You responded cheerfully with the same 'Hii!' In a flash I saw us at a lazy cafe, two decades from now, swapping stories over steaming cups of coffee ('Kokkee' is what you call it right now). You seemed like such a friend, one I'd love to hang out with. You already are.
You spotted my purple hairbrush next to your tiny white one. While I asked for the latter, you promptly got up and fetched both. A moment later you were insisting on combing my hair. As I let warm sunlight filter through mine, I glanced sideways to see your face intent, trying to brush my unruly hair. I smiled to myself. Will we be braiding each other's hair a decade from now? How lovely it would be to have a gal-pal in the house.
I kept trying to get up to take you to your bath, and you kept pulling me back with your 'Mamma! Beysiiii!' Everything is an exclamation in your world. You exclaim, I pause.
In that one pause this afternoon, I saw an eternity.
