It was another of our family reunions. My parents, my siblings, our children, and their children––four generations of us were rejoicing under one roof when the agonising cries of a child put a pause to the celebration.

Kush, one of my grandnephews (about two years and a half) was crying; a more appropriate word would be: “Wailing.” We felt he was hurt and ran to his aid. Rachna, the child’s mother took charge; I joined her in her effort to calm down the little one. He wasn’t hurt. No physical harm had come to him. He was sitting rather coolly in a chair, wailing occasionally at will. Interesting conversation ensued between the mother and the child.

“Beta! What happened? Why are you crying?”

“Because Dhruv (another of my grandnephews) didn’t play with me yesterday.”

“But he is playing with you now. Why don’t you play?”

“Because he said that he would not play with me next Sunday.”

“He won’t play with you because he is leaving for Ujjain next weekend.”

“But why did he tease me in the school, two days ago?”

The Q & A session between the two seemed endless. Kush filled the time between each question and the following answer with a wail, each of which sounded louder, more orchestrated and more dramatic than the earlier one. The problem was that there was no problem. Was Kush seeking more attention than he was getting in the crowd?

I gave the issue a quick thought.

Rachna had been blessed with a second child, a son. At home, the infant was gnawing at her time and attention, which was once entirely Kush’s. It was natural for little Kush to feel neglected at home. Then, in the family gathering, there was none to spend much time with him. It was attention that Kush was seeking. I shared my thoughts with Rachna and advised her to make a conscious effort to spend quality time with him every day. That was a long-term solution; an immediate remedy was still eluding us.

We were struggling to find a way out to quieten him when I stumbled upon an idea that worked. I urged Kush to stop crying instantly because unabated wailing was having adverse effect on his body; his features were getting convoluted. I told him, “One starts looking like a dog when one cries for long without a proper cause.” And, before his little mind could get the import of what I said, I clicked a photo on my iPhone. Then, picked the picture of a stray dog from my photo library and showed it to him.

Lo and behold! Kush became silent. The amazement in his eyes defied description.

Epilogue: In due course Kush caught on the joke. A year later, when we met again, he made a funny face and asked me to click another picture. “How will the dog appear in the pic, if I make a face like this,” he asked with an impish smile.

Clan Chordia had gotten together in our Bhopal home. As always, fun and frolic ensued. Being together was always an occasion to celebrate. We, the brothers––three of whom were young grandparents––reminisced about our childhood. Having met after a long time, the children exchanged notes as we waited for the table to be laid for lunch.

Oblivious of what the grandparents, parents and uncles were occupied with; Aashi and Dhruv were playing cricket in the little corridor between the dining area and the entrance. My mind governed by my years in military uniform did not approve of their playing inside the house. There had to be some decorum.

I held back the impulse to exercise my authority to stop them. Instead, I tried to feel the pulse before deciding a course of action.

“Hello kids! Playing cricket!?” I broached the subject half-heartedly.

Dhruv: “Yes Dada, why don’t you join us; we need a fielder?”

Me: “But you should be playing cricket on the playground; not here in the house.”

Aashi: “Temperatures are soaring outside. We have been permitted to play indoors. We are playing defensively and carefully so that we do not damage things around.”

Me: “OK, so you are trying to get into the league of Tendulkar, Sehwag, Dhoni, ….” I changed the tone of my conversation. It was their home and their actions bore the formal seal of approval of their parents.

Aashi stumped me by his reply: “Dada, I don’t want to emulate any of those legends. I want to be a successful cricketer and be known for my own style.” I envied him for his clarity of thought. I didn’t have it when I was his age. Chhaya, my wife vouches I still don’t have it. Disregardful of my poor skills with the bat and the ball, I joined in. After all, at 56, I was nearly ten times their age and thought I could match them in performance. They thought otherwise.

Constricted space mandated slow under-arm bowling. Those little champions who had mastered indoor cricket started hitting my slow straight balls all over until I discovered that spinning the ball while bowling under-arm was easy, and effective too. I exploited the possibility and bowled both “OUT!” several times in quick succession. They were awestruck; couldn’t fathom a reason for the steep fall in their performance with the bat.

Then, it just happened…

I asked them, “Do you eat carrots and green vegetables?”

“No, we don’t like them,” they were spontaneous.

“Oh! I guess that’s why your eyes are weak; you are unable to spot the ball in time. Also, since you don’t eat vegetables, you don’t get the necessary vitamins and minerals. I am not surprised your reactions are rather slow and you are getting beaten repeatedly.” It was an off the cuff statement with no intention whatsoever to sermonise the kids.

I carried on pulverising their pride in their batting prowess. Aashi continued to get bowled while Dhruv took a break. He went missing for a while––a long while, indeed. Next, I heard Ruby, his mother, chastising him, “ What are you doing with the knife? You’ll hurt yourself. I’ll do that for you.”

OMG! Dhruv was trying to clean up and cut a carrot to eat. He sought immediate improvement in his eyesight and reflexes. Both Dhruv and Aashi returned to bat after eating some carrots. This time on, I was under obligation to demonstrate the benefits of eating carrot and green leafy vegetables to the two grandchildren. I did not spin the ball anymore. With improved sight and reflexes, Aashi and Dhruv regained form. Rather they displayed superior performance.

While Aashi and Dhruv, realised the importance of healthy eating, I carried a different lesson:

“There are times when the fear of notional loss from not doing a thing far exceeds the joy of apparent gains accrued from doing it. This vulnerability is exploitable.”