The kids now play cricket on a terrace. And the great batsmen they are, every evening, balls come flying down and disappear in the shrubs.
'Ai can I have ten bucks for a new ball, please, please, please. We are in the middle of a match and I am batting, Ai.'
If Papa is not around, I give him the money. But papa has been home the last few days, and my hands are tied.
'You cannot have a new ball every single day. Go find your old balls.' he says, quite rightly.
So Pavan's imagination comes to his rescue.
'Ai, my freind is having a birthday party today.'
'Thats nice. You should buy a present for him.'
'Can I take a ball?'
'Sure you can. Here is ten bucks.'
'Thank you Ai. Another freind is having a birthday party tomorow also.'
Papa looks up from his comp. 'Is your freind having a birthday party for the ball or is the ball for the birthday party?' he asks. Pavan is too confused to answer.
'Its ok, Prayas. Lying is also an art. Let him go.' I say.
'Let him go, but you go and check.'
So I check and I realize that it is we parents who have lied so much to our parents that we cant imagine an innocence who wants to buy balls for a birthday party.
I would maybe like to say that fathers dont love their kids as much as us mommas, but then I found a poem that melted me to tears, written by myPapa.