The enchanting Kunchukkuttan

Pranvav, the treasured Nonu of Amma, the esteemed Kuttu of Papa, and the beloved Kunchu of Appuppa (grandfather), is a mere one and a half years old—a cherished jewel to his mother, a delightful gem to his father, and a revered grandchild to his grandfather. Pranav’s father, who was raised in the serene surroundings of Kerala and now works in Bengaluru, sought to marry someone from Hissar (Haryana), and together they settled in Bengaluru. In due time, the young cherub shall be welcomed into a playschool, where he will mingle with companions fluent in Kannada, Tamil, and a plethora of other youthful tongues. As a grandfather and an educator by vocation, I find myself somewhat perplexed about the linguistic trajectory the child is destined to embark upon.

At the break of each morning, he eagerly rushes to my chamber, gently rousing me from slumber to retrieve the morning newspaper. Though he has yet to master speech fully, he articulates the initials of the Deccan Herald with surprising accuracy, proudly identifying the bold ‘D’ and ‘H’ on the front page. Perched upon my lap, he studies the vivid illustrations adorning its pages, then bounds through the house, a joyous whirlwind of energy.

While his mother attends to his nourishment, he fixates on the television, captivated by certain cinematic tunes from Tamil (such as Kurukku Sirithavale), Malayalam (Unnikale Oru Katha Parayam), and Hindi films (Deewana Hai Ye Mann), alongside Punjabi melodies (Morni Banke). At approximately 10:30 am, following a period of playful interaction with his toys, he is given a bath. Subsequently, we proceed to the car park, where I place him lovingly in his stroller. On every occasion that we go outdoors, he consistently retrieves his shoes on his own. I am perpetually amazed by his remarkable aptitude for operating technology, be it the computer, television, or mobile devices. On occasion, he extends his reach to communicate via WhatsApp with his ‘ammai’ (pappa’s sister) residing in Australia. One might assert, without exaggeration, that he has even sent a photograph of himself, saved on my mobile, to one of my contacts—perhaps knowingly, perhaps not.

In the serene evenings, his mother—an enforcement officer currently on childcare leave—escorts him to the nearby park, where he joyfully plays with others of his age. Upon returning home, he takes a refreshing bath, enjoys a wholesome meal, and shares playful moments with his father—an inspector in the income-tax department—before peacefully drifting off to sleep.

Thus unfolds the picturesque day for a young lad. As a retired gentleman and a widower, this little one brings me profound solace, and I derive immense joy from tending to his needs; the thought of existence devoid of his presence is truly unimaginable.