Richa
Jha
I’m not
sure how many of you have attended a Baby Show, but it was certainly
the first one for me. A Baby Show (BS) is something like a Dog
Show (DS), where you're meant to flaunt your own assets along
with those of your baby or your dog. Much more than at the other
social gatherings, it's the only time when all, yes all, eyes
will be on you with absolutely no one else to steal your one
minute of fame. Until the person accompanying the next baby
or dog walks in for his/her turn.
My child
will soon turn three. By BS standards, it is old age, but then
this was a BS and a Talent Search show combined. The stars of
tomorrow were to be earmarked from this BS.
Just as
both men and women parade their dogs at the DS, I logically
concluded that it would be a similar arrangement at the BS.
Since The Hubby's paunch is more presentable than mine these
days, we decided he would look better sashaying down. With neatly
trimmed moustaches and close Mach-3ed cheeks, with a floral
yellow tie and a burgundy bespoked shirt, knowing that he was
dressed to kill, he strutted out of the bathroom early morning
on the day of the show. I looked at him and suddenly felt those
moustaches had no business being there. They go well with dogs,
not babies. Especially, these days when the metrosexual look
is so in ('Chikna' we call it in Mumbai). So out went his straight
handlebars.
Our child
slept through his father's readying drill. He slept through
his own. Similar to what happens while getting a dog ready for
a DS, we clipped his nails, snipped his locks, and basted him
in foundation and compact (he'd better have been the fairest
of them all). The previous week he'd been fed on a diet rich
in butter and ghee, so that he looked fattened and ugly, but
"cho chweet" by the BS or DS standards. Trouble was,
the buttons of my son's pants wouldn't come together that morning.
The expansion had not been factored in while buying new clothes
especially for the BS. The only thing that finally did fit him
were his home <>pajamas. Pajamas<>, as you will
agree, have an unassuming capacity to accommodate, whether big
men or small.
With few
last minute rehearsals of how to keep his head tilted to one
side while gingerly walking down the ramp, how to keep waving
at the crowds with one hand and holding the baby with the other,
how to smile with one corner of his lips, careful not to let
the teeth show, and so on, we left the house. The Hubby promised
that he would keep his yellow teeth concealed and would not
scratch his head. He also promised that he would hold the child
as if he were his own child, not someone else's. I don't know
what he meant by that, but in all probability, he was just repeating
what the crowds had said about the winner of the previous year's
DS- that he'd held the dog close as if it were his own child.
Placing words in the right context is not something The Hubby
is terribly good at. But I'm glad he made a sincere attempt
at it. As I said, there's little difference between a BS and
a DS.
Our son
slept through the drive to the BS venue. Ditto when the participants
were being lined up for the contest. Horror of horrors, we realised
that The Hubby was the only male participant. The other mothers
were busy feeding last-minute dope to their children. Things
like, "remember to smile when we are there; or don't pout
too much; or show them how independent you are, and yet part
with the I-love-mom and I-love-dad message. Also, as my son
still slept, I overheard two parents discuss that this little
child looked drugged! But when he finally did wake up, and set
his eyes on his dandy dad, he hollered. I was apprehensive about
cracks appearing on the surface of his make-up, so I had to
quickly think of a way to placate him. Therefore, I jumped into
the ring.
But his
dad's makeover had shocked him. He sucked on his thumb furiously,
wailing every time he thought of the clean-shaven man. So while
the other babies went up on the stage and performed, my son
cried hugging me tight. He cried, and I watched helplessly as
the other babies out-performed him. One mother told her child
to recite Wyatt's poems, he did. The other mother made her child
dance to one of the million Hindi remixes floating around these
days, she excelled. One toddler raced two remote control cars
at the same time. Another one rattled off multiplication tables
from 2 to 20 all toddlers, these. When my turn came, I exhorted
my child to at least get off my arms and stand up on the stage,
but he refused and bawled even more.
When in
the final Q&A round, each child was asked what they wanted
to be when they grew up, most girls said they wanted to be Miss
Universe, while most boys wanted to be cricketers. My son, as
expected, opened his mouth only to wail.
The future,
as you will agree, is bleak for my child. In the mean time,
we are thinking of bringing in dogs as pets. With a bit of training,
they should be able to participate in the forthcoming DS. At
least, they will not let us down, and they just may have their
moment of glory at their show. And with them, we too. Besides,
The Hubby's moustache would have grown back by then. Perfect
timing.
