'Ai, can I have the scooter-paster?' asks my seven year old.
'The scooter - paster.' he repeats, rubbing his hands, smudged black.
'Oh, your cycle chain has come off again, right?'
'So you need the screw driver, honey, not scooter -paster.'
'Yes. Same thing. Give me fast, no. All my friends are upon my cycle. They will break the chain.'
So we go out, armed with the scooter- paster, no screw driver.
Its not the boys, but three aunties that are upon his upturned bi-cycle, pulling and pushing the chain, getting their manicured hands dirty.
Its an eerie sight, but I can stand it. These aunties look after my kid in the evenings when he cycles around the block, so I cant mess with them.
The boys, however, are distraught.
'Mummy, please. You will break the chain.'
'Auntie please. We will go to the cycle repair shop.'
'Don't pull so hard, auntie. You will break the chain.'
The mostly dormant feminist in me suddenly awakens.
'Don't worry boys. Let them do the job. Cycle chains don't break so easily. Move away.' I say.
Within two minutes the chain is back in its place. And boy, are we aunties proud of ourselves.
I invite the aunties home to wash their hands, but they decline. I suspect they want to show off the mehendi to their husbands.