Moustache politics

Little Sanju wanted to help her parents. What could she do to stop their fights?

Little Sanjana was too young to understand the tensions in her parents’ marriage. But she was a clever intelligent child who observed the world with big thoughtful eyes.

She sat in a corner of the living room with her crayons and sketch book or her dolls but she was aware of every sound and nuance in the flat. In play school, she had learnt a few songs and tricks with which she entertained her parents when they were in a good mood and paid some attention to her.

Not that they didn’t love her. Her father loved her in his own way. She thought, perhaps, her father loved her a little less because she was a girl and didn’t measure up to his expectations. He was quick to lose his temper when she did something wrong. Like the other day when she tripped over his foot. 

“Clumsy,” he scolded her. “Don’t you see what’s in front of you, Sanjana? Perhaps you need glasses?” Sanjana cried the whole day because she didn’t want to wear glasses. Her mother loved Sanju and was ready to cuddle her whenever she was hurt, physically or deep down in her little heart. 

Of course, Appa and Amma were different as could be. Appa was a police officer, tall and dark-skinned, with a heavy moustache covering his upper lip. When he spoke, either in Hindi or in English, his meeshai swallowed half his words. Amma was slender and fair-skinned with a pretty smile lighting up her face.

Appa hardly had any relatives on his side. No one came to visit him from Bihar and he never spoke of his parents or his siblings. He was that awful thing, an orphan. While Amma had a whole battalion of relatives, starting with her father who was a clean shaven, chubby-faced old man. They would  all visit from Chennai and Sanju would be drowned in their Tamil chatter and unrestrained laughter. 

Appa, without any Tamil, would retire to the balcony where he would sulk, until the chubby-faced grandpa and his party left. Sanju felt nervous during these times for there was always a fight between her parents over the Tamil language, which came as a barrier between them. Sanju wanted to help her parents. What could she do to make Appa and Amma not fight?

For, there were moments when all three of them had a jolly good time, slurping at ice cream cones in the nearby park. Their home was not always gloomy with her father’s angry moods. It was only when Tamil was spoken that the atmosphere became tense. Finally she came up with a solution – a child’s solution.

That evening she climbed on to her father’s lap and looked into his face. She looked at the moustache which seemed to grow menacing. She wanted to wish it away. She smoothed the bristling hair with her fingers. “Appa,” she whispered, “don’t you want to shave off this meeshai? You know, you’ll talk Tamil if you do that. Grandpa talks Tamil because he has no meeshai. And you’ll no longer get angry or fight with Amma.”