Kishore Singh: 'Don'tworriboutme'

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My sister called to say her son was a little reserved, somewhat intense and not given to much by way of self-expression. She also said that with school closed, he was on holiday. The suggestion hung in the air for a bit till I bit the bait. "Alright," I said, "send him over."

Which was easier said than done. For a fauji family, they seemed amazingly lackadaisical, and so when my nephew arrived at the airport in Ahmedabad to board his flight to Delhi, they found he wasn't on its reservation roster. He took a flight two days later, almost got lost at the airport, but in the end he made it home safe. "Amazing adventures, eh?" I said to the teenager, to which he mumbled, "Yesskindaff," or something to that effect.

It soon became evident that he wasn't a sparkling conversationalist, or even a conversationalist at all. If you spoke to him he'd mutter back, but you were never very sure of what he was saying, or if he was saying anything at all. Would he like some more pasta? "Thenkui'mokey!" he'd mutter, leaving you to wonder whether that was a yes or a no. Did he have any clothes for washing? "Dat'sverykinawfu!" he'd exclaim, but in the upshot you didn't know whether to pause the washing machine or go with the cycle. Was he comfortable? "Don'tworriboutme!" he'd respond, so you no longer knew whether he wanted an extra pillow or not.

"Get him to open up and speak about his future plans," my sister urged me from Ahmedabad, so I sat my nephew down for a man-to-man. "Have you considered what you want to do when you grow up?" I asked him. "I'llbeoke!" he explained. "Management?" I probed further. "Dearmyeesfine," he confirmed. "But what subjects will you take in the next class?" I coaxed him. "Whaterdegimme," he said, which wasn't very helpful.

He didn't want to go out for a film with my daughter's friends because "Itsawrite," he said. "He's shy," said my daughter dismissively, upset that the movie plan had been cancelled on his account. Could I teach him how to drive? "Nawdatzoke," he said helpfully. Would he like us to take him out shopping? "Donbawder," he replied, so we didn't.

My son wanted to send him back hip and happening, and recommended we get his hair streaked and his ears pierced, so he called his mother and complained, "Dey'replanning howriblethingsforme," so we gave up the idea halfway through. Instead, my brother took him to see Basic Instinct 2, which had an "A" rating, and immediately my sister bawled at us for spoiling him.

It was unfortunate that when my son and he went to the club for a swim, the car heated up, so he had to push it, and then they went to the market, and the car battery died on them, so he had to push some more "" apparently not doing too good a job of it. "He has no muscles," lamented my son, to which he responded with a "Donpushkarsindearmy".

My sister had taken to sighing long distance by now. "At least get him to read," she cribbed, ignoring the many years she'd taken care of him without figuring out a way to get him to open a book. I prescribed a reading course "" horror fiction for the daytime, humour for bedside company. He maxed five minutes beyond which he couldn't stay awake with any book. He spent a lot of the holiday sleeping.

Close to his return, I asked him whether he'd enjoyed himself and would like to return. "Gladikame," he said, "hadaverigudtyme andwilseeusumtymesoon." I was touched "" it was the most he'd ever spoken to me. I only wish I'd understood what he'd said.