As is so often the case, he wants his brother’s ambulance. Nothing but that same ambulance. That’s his charming trait. I was like that with my older brother when I grew up in India, right up to my early teens. My older twin doesn’t want to part with it. He runs to the bedroom. The younger twin gives him a chase. He is not crying, yet the sound that comes out of him is exactly that.
Within a minute, they dart back into the living room. I see my younger son has the ambulance in his clutch.
I know he wants to see a broader smile on my face. Maybe with my lips parted and with some accompanying sound. If not roaring laughter, a giggle at the very least. Like all parents, I am their magician. I have to conjure a trick that would bring back the daddy smile. I am the extrovert, my wife the introvert. And on most days, I am the joker, the entertainer, and their regular playmate. It can be exhausting at times.
How can I explain to him that the laughter they are longing for will be back, but not at that moment?
I do not try. I can’t force one upon myself.
After about 10 minutes of relaxing, I get myself an ice pack to apply on my tired feet. As I walk back from the fridge to the sofa, I brush it on the back of my younger twin’s head. I cannot help myself but chuckle. He touches his hair. Amused, he cracks up. I touch a corner of the cold, light blue, flat board on his right cheek. His eyes have a sudden glint.
“Thanda (cold)?” I ask.
He nods his head with a toothy grin.
I repeat the same act on his brother. He acts out a shiver—no smile from him.
They start chanting “aabar”, “aabar” (again, again) in unison. The younger one’s giggly voice overpowers the older one’s, as always. I comply.
We three boys start laughing together, the two run around our small living room, and I am in slow pursuit to touch the ice in different parts of their bodies.
“Baba here,” the younger one says, pointing to his ear.
“Here,” the older one says, bending to show the back of his knees where severe eczema inflammations have been bothering him for some time.
One puts his finger on the tip of the nose.
The other pats his arm. I manage to brush the ice on the elbow as he runs away. It’s a game they invent on the spot.
And it goes on for the next few minutes.
Pain continues to throb in my heels and left lower back.
I am exhausted going round in circles, but the weariness is gone.
I was wrong.
My boys are the real magicians.
