The Interloper

Prologue Note: There is something so beautiful about the interactions between a mother and a son that brings innate peace just to visualize it.  This here is just a flight of my imagination, the wings of which were donated by Meera San's "What I do?!"  Thanks Meera :)

I watched them interact from the window of my home.  That mother and son duo who passed by every evening at 6pm.  They didn't know that they were awaited with anticipation each evening.

Some days were happy days.  The little 3 year old firmly held onto his mom's index finger and skipped and trotted along to keep pace with her brisk stride.  The clippety-clop of her heels against the cement pavement and the thumpety-thump of his runners were like the rhythm of a dance-inducing rock tune as they rolled past my window.  She appeared to be engrossed in whatever tall tale he had spun up to narrate to her.  You could tell that she was enjoying the narration from the tilt of her head; the way her eyes twinkled with the shine of his imagination; and the way she could barely control her laughter from spilling out lest an earnest 3 year old gets overzealous in his creation.  She struggled to find that right balance between benign believability and indulgent acceptance. 

I looked forward to the happy days.  They brought a balance to my world. I leaned against the window to catch the snippets of chatter between a 3 year old imagination and the indulgent belief of his mother.

"… and then I said… I said… mommie are you listenin?..."

"Yea baby… I'm listening.  Tell me what you said."

"I said… oh no… not like that… lemme show you how its done!..."

"You said that sweetie?  You showed him the right way to do it?"

"Yea mommie… I did.  And then the teacher said…"

It left me with a smile on my face and peace in my heart.  Today a 3 year old got to do some stuff that made him feel important.  Whether it was real or in his imagination didn't matter.  It was real for mom, because she accepted his story.  And that made it real for him.  And if it was real to begin with, then his imagination added all the requisite colors to turn it into a beautiful painting. 

Either way it stayed pricelessly pristine in the memories of both mother and son; and one interloper who looked through the window into their little world.

Some days were not so happy days.  The little 3 year old shuffled along refusing to keep pace.  He refused to hold her finger forcing her to grasp his arm and pull him along.  The clip-clap-stomp of her heels and the shuffle-shuffle-pause of his runners were like the undertone of a blues song that was rhythmic but not happy.  She appeared to be distracted and looked at him as if his sulk was the final ruination of her already ruined day. 

He looked like he was close to a tantrum, and the only thing holding him back from throwing it was the fierce frown on his mom's face.  There was a struggle apparent on his face between the need to spill out his outrage and his instincts that were warning him that this was not a good time to spill.  Thereby producing more outrage, the weight of which was causing his feet to drag; the heat of which was causing his face to redden up.  I knew a volcanic explosion was imminent either from the mother or the son. 

Strangely, I looked forward to the not-so-happy days also.  They brought perspective to my world.  Even a relationship as close as that of a mother and son is not perfect.  Yet it is still undeniably beautiful.  I lean against the window to catch the fumes of a 3 year old outrage and the frustration of his overwhelmed mother.

"… pick up your feet.  Walk faster…"

"uhhuhhuhun… I is walking fastaa…"

"This is faster?  You know mommie has much to do when we get home.  Can you not cooperate for once?"

"You are hurtin my hand."

"Then hold MY hand and walk FAST."

"I tired.  I can't walk nomoh."

"… just a little bit more.  Please don't make me carry you today.  Mommie is tired.."

"I more tired… I can't walk… my hand hurts...uhhuhhuhun"

"Stop it… walk faster!"

Those days I wanted to walk out and cradle the little guy in my arms.  I wanted to tweak his ears, and tickle his round little tummy.  I wanted to be alchemist of joy and turn all that tantrummy outrage into gleeful laughter.  Those days I wanted to smile encouragingly at his mother and tell her that she was doing a good job.  I wanted to show her the view from my window to convince her that she is blessed to have this life, no matter how difficult it felt like some days. 

As they struggled with each other, these times were painted by the interloper alone who quietly captured that moment and held it in his memory.

Some days were pure chaos.  Like the time when the 3-year-old snatched his hand away and ran smack onto the middle of the road.  I don't know what made him do that.  Maybe he was following an errant ball.  Or perhaps he wanted to chase the cat that walked across carelessly.  It may even have been a gesture of independence. 

His mother screamed in panic.  My heart stopped as I almost leapt out of the window.  Thankfully there was no traffic on that side street at that time.  She ran after him, grabbed him; swung him up to hold him protectively against her chest as she looked fearfully up and down the street to confirm that no car was in sight to mow them down.  Then she walked back to the sidewalk and put him down to admonish him about never running onto the street like that. 

Her voice shook with residual panic.  Yet the steely edge of the firm words came out crisp and deadly, to deliver the intent clearly, to an independent-minded 3 year old child.  These are the boundaries - you better respect them.  There was no "or else" delivered.  Just a crisp instruction.  "Never do it again."

Kid reacted predictably as 3-year-olds are prone to do, by having the mother of all tantrums.  He flung himself on the pavement and uttered a loud wail that was a cross between a battle-cry and a scream for attention.  Arms and legs flailed and struck the sidewalk with determination of outright rebellion.  She stayed there, seemingly uninvolved, dispassionately calm.  She watched him quietly letting the worst of it pass.  She let her love flow out silently as tears from her eyes instead of pretentiously catering to his attention-seeking ways.  She waited him out. 

He looked back over one shoulder to see his mother with silent tears flowing down her face.  Ashamed now at his behaviour, he lifted himself up the sidewalk diffidently and stood awkwardly in front of her.  For a moment or two, they faced each other off, as if carved in stone.  She kneeling down in front of him; he standing there in a sulky slouch.  Faces level with each other.  Their eyes locked into each other and a stream of pure love binding them together. 

She calmly opened her arms.  He stumbled into them in his haste as if scared that if he delayed, she may change her mind.  They hugged in mutual forgiveness.  Then she stood up gracefully with her child in her arms and walked away.

Moments like these are so colored with the passion of life and love that no one can forget them.  They live eternally in the memory of the mother, the son, and even the unholy ghost of an interloper.