My little Butsu

It’s the very first day of 2018. Really, the maternity break should have ended 2 weeks ago. But I’m still an overwhelmed mother. The least I hope to find time for, is make these notes for my sanity, here on medium.

In maybe a decade from now if my mortal soul survives the randomly gathered internet clutter, I’d like to dig into my everyday’s life lesson the toddler taught me in these early days. For the sake of anonymity let me call her Butsu. She is my dearest.


Today Butsu was at the elevator with yet another complete stranger. She wouldn’t stop staring at him. The man avoided eye contact for a while. He pulled out a device and got busy. Butsu kept staring at him still. He didn’t seem much the kind who’d smile at a baby. But Butsu doesn’t judge people like I would. The wait is nearly over, the elevator has almost reached our floor. We are traveling up 4 floors, ample time to spare her a smile if you asked me. The lift stops at the 4th floor, and just when I’d nearly given up, our copassenger looks up, smiles and holds the door open for us to step out. Butsu returns a generously big toothless smile. We went to Paati’s (maternal grandmom) place on the fourth. She sits there aged and tattered by chemotherapy. She awaits Butsu’s daily visits. She doesn’t have much conversation otherwise with the people around her. She says she like her silence.


We were perhaps all born craving human contact - a spoken word, a touch, a hug or just a smile even. All things that makes a Butsu happy. And yet as the years have gone by, we live in the shadows of our own devices - the most innocent of which are handheld.

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