Invisible Riches

For years, the best seat in our house wasn't at the dining table.

It was on the kitchen counter.

That was where one or other of my boys would sit while I cooked.

From there they watched onions being chopped,

vegetables changing colour in the pan,

and rotis puffing over the flame.

Every time a roti ballooned into a perfect phulka,

Sameer would clap his hands excitedly and shout,

"Phulta! Phulta!"

He couldn't quite say phulka yet.

The lower third of the refrigerator was covered with alphabet magnets.

Without ever sitting down for lessons, they learned letters, then words, then numbers, even colours.

Those same magnets became addition while dinner cooked.

Sometimes I'd mix different fruits into custard.

Every spoonful became a guessing game.

A little mouth would open eagerly.

One thoughtful chew. 

Eyes narrowing.

Then...

"Apple!"

The next spoonful.

"Orange!"

"Grapes!"

They never realized they were learning.

To them, we were simply playing.

Watching soon became helping.

Tiny hands filled jars with dal.

Held the other end of a bedsheet while we folded it.

Tried to fold clothes into neat little rectangles.

Stacked books.

Set the table.

Carried plates with complete concentration.

Poured water into glasses, usually spilling a little on the way.

Sometimes food reached the table.

Sometimes it landed somewhere in between.

It never mattered.

I learned very early not to discourage the effort.

The skill would come.

The willingness was far more precious.

One day Sameer was standing beside me while I cooked.

Suddenly he grabbed hold of my kurta and peeped cautiously from behind me.

I couldn't imagine what had fascinated him so completely.

I asked him but didn’t get any answer.

So I crouched down beside him.

For the first time, I saw the stove from a two-year-old's height.

The blue flame wrapped itself

around the bottom of the pot like something alive.

Of course he was captivated.

He had simply never seen it from there before.

People often asked me how I managed.

Two little boys.

A home.

More than one job.

The truth was, I never felt I was doing it alone.

I had two very small helpers.

Our days were never divided into my work and their time.

We simply did life together.

A friend once gifted Kabir a beautiful set of very special toy cars.

They weren't the little Matchbox cars we were used to.

They were large, beautifully made, and came in fitted packaging.

In our home, when you finished playing, the toys went back where they belonged.

Not because I insisted.

Simply because that's what we did.

Months later, the same friend came to visit.

Kabir took the cars out, played with them,

and then carefully placed every one back into its own space in the box.

He watched quietly for a moment.

Then he looked at me and said,

"He did that all by himself?"

I smiled.

It had never occurred to me that there was any other way.

We flew kites on the terrace,

Running from one end to the other.

Celebrating when one finally caught the wind.

Groaning when another landed on the neighbour's roof or tangled itself in a tree.

Then waiting for the next windy day, so we could do it all over again.

Weekends often meant bicycles in the trunk of the car and off to the park.

We practised for cycling races.

They were always ready to get up at the crack of dawn on a Sunday. 

Never on a weekday to go to school. 

But always to go to the park to cycle.

One red bicycle.

One blue.

Helmets.

Water bottles.

A few snacks.

The trunk slammed shut.

And we were off.

Round and round the park they’d go..

Thank goodness we usually had a time limit pre decided for this!

On one race day, I was in the back of a car with the tailgate open,

filming the boys as they rode through the city.

Suddenly I realized I hadn’t seen Kabir in a while.

I kept panning the camera.

Riders came and went.

But Kabir wasn't in the frame anymore.

Where on earth had he gone?

It felt like forever before he appeared again,

happily pedalling along as though nothing had happened.

I don't know who was more relieved.

It didn't matter whether it was Jayamahal Park, Cubbon Park or Lalbagh.

They all meant picnic baskets, badminton, frisbee,

flying kites and long afternoons together.

Full of food.

Laughter.

Sunshine.

And the simple joy of spending a day together.

As they grew older, and I had a job that didn’t allow us two months away,

the helping simply grew with them.

During the summer holidays, there was always a list of chores to finish

before I got home from work at 5 o’clock.

Years later they confessed that they'd often lose track of time

until one of them suddenly looked at the clock.

"Mum will be home in an hour!"

The house would erupt into activity.

Beds made.

Laundry folded.

Floors swept and mopped.

By the time I walked through the door, the chore list was covered in neat little tick marks.

But their faces always gave them away.

They tried just a little too hard to look innocent.

And every now and then I'd notice something peeping out

from under the takht,

quietly nudged a little farther underneath with a foot

as I walked past.

It was all I could do not to laugh.

It’s been many years now. 

They aren’t little kids any more.

We still do life together.

We go for walks on the beach.

We play games together. 

They drive, and I get to be the passenger in the back.

The work has changed.

Sometimes Kabir makes breakfast and I become the helper.

Sometimes Sameer teaches me a new piece of software.

Sometimes we're painting a wall,

laying a wooden floor or building something together.

Very often they tell me,

"Sit down, Mum. We've got this."

For years, I've wished I could have given my boys more while they were growing up.

They've always smiled and said,

"We never lacked anything, Mum. We had a wonderful childhood."

I finally understand what they meant.

They had joy.

Laughter.

Adventures.

Conversations.

Games.

Trust.

A home filled with ordinary moments we shared together.

They had all the riches.

And if I were given the chance to live those years again...

I'd choose exactly the same journey.

I wouldn’t change a thing.