When will you grow up?
Wait. Don’t. Ever. Please.
Honestly, I don’t even know what I’d do if you actually did grow up. You’ve somehow mastered the art of living a child's life disguised as an adult, or is it the other way round? Either way, every day I watch you, and every day I marvel at how little has changed since, presumably, age ten.
Let me paint a picture.
You eat like a toddler with an exclusive contract for chaos. There’s always a bit of ketchup lounging at the corners of your mouth, some coconut chutney clinging to your kurta like a koala on a eucalyptus tree. Every meal ends with me debating whether I should wipe your face with a towel or just watch the mess unfold like a Netflix series titled "The Chronicles of Condiment."
And don’t get me started on the paneer butter masala. You've corrupted my palate so thoroughly that if the paneer isn’t charred with that generous hint of burnt milk, I send it back. At an actual restaurant. To a trained chef. Because apparently, you are now my five-star benchmark for dairy-based curries.
Your hair? Ah, yes. Always styled in “High Voltage Balloon Static,” like you've been experimenting with Nikola Tesla’s leftovers. I keep wondering, have your parents ever introduced you to a comb, or is this part of a lifelong rebellion against grooming?
And the excuses. My God, the excuses. Like that time the peas korma tasted bitter, and you confidently said it was due to “less salt.” I have a doctorate, and exposure to molecular gastronomy and yet, nothing prepared me for that culinary theory. You improvise explanations with the flair of a magician pulling logic out of a hat.
Then there's your definition of punctuality. “I'll be ready by 8:30,” you say, but what you mean is: “I am currently in a philosophical debate with time itself.” You live on MST - Mera Standard Time, while the rest of us obediently tick away in IST and just sit around ageing like avocados. P.S. MST is 25 minutes behind IST, and I now have two clocks running in my head.
Remember that day we turned the whole house upside down searching for the AC remote? We accused the cushions, CBI interrogated the child, and you nearly filed a missing item report. Only to later discover that you had “inadvertently” wrapped it up with the bedsheet and meticulously placed it in the washing machine. Yes, it came out sparkling clean. Also, permanently dead.
Then there’s your signature move: the great dismissal. You have an Olympic-level ability to shrug off things pointed out to your face. If confrontation were an art form, you'd be its most elusive subject. “Responsibility?” you say, like it's a new word you've never heard before. “Sounds French. Can I return it?”
And of course, how could I ever forget, the great poriyal incident. You laid out a platter of what looked like heaven: freshly fried potato poriyal. My soul actually did a small happy dance, and my gustatory reflexes kicked in. I took a bite, and... my world collapsed. You watched, without flinching, and casually said, “Oh, that’s sweet potato.” Sweet. Potato. You scarred me so deeply that I now flinch at fried things. I feel like I need therapy every time I see a root vegetable.
Sometimes I truly ask myself, Why didn't you ever grow up? And then, I see it. The way your joy is so unfiltered, your reasoning so marvelously unhinged, your presence so maddeningly lovable. If you had grown up, I’d have missed out on this theatre of absurdity I now call daily life.
So I remain torn. Should you grow up? Maybe. Should you stay just like this forever? Absolutely.
Just... maybe skip washing electronics next time. And for the love of potatoes, fried items shouldn't taste sweet.
