The tale and its never-ending tail....

 "You know that.... girl from.... my school?", he asks me, babbling cutely. He had learnt to speak in proper sentences few months ago. And now he was in the play group, already a school going boy.

"What's her name?", I ask.

"Ti ahe na...ti...don shendi bandhun yete (The girl who ties two pony tails). Ti mala chawli (She bit me)", he says.

I check his hand and see a red mark. I get agitated, but first, I ask him what did he do to her? "Did you hit her?", I ask.

"No mumma. She.... wanted the rock-ing duck... I was sitting on. And I.... refused to get .....down. So ....she got angry ....and bit me", he said. Again showing me the mark.

"The school authorities and teachers should be more vigilant. How can they not inform parents when such things happen? What will happen if someone gets hurt badly?....", I keep blurting and my son is confused with all the bombardment of questions he doesn't understand.



"Vi...gi...ant", he repeats looking at his red mark.

"I am coming to school with you tomorrow. I should directly ask the class teacher what is this about ", I say.

"Yay! Mumma is coming .....to school with me... tom..orrow", he rejoices.


Next day, I reach the school with my son. "Take deep breaths. Relax. I need to calm down a bit more. My kid shouldn't suffer later, if I say something wrong", I say to myself.

I talk to his teacher about the issue. I show his mark. "Vi..gi..ant", he says, pointing towards it. I try not to smile to maintain the seriousness.

"We are sorry Ma'am about what happened. But we had called her parents and already asked them to look into it. The mavshi (caretaker) was present there so we knew what happened. It's already been taken care of, don't worry", the teacher said.

"But the parents should know what happens with their kids at school. You should've called us too. I know school doesn't like to escalate issues, yet", I demand, though politely.

"I know a lot of times kids cook up stories, but when I saw the mark, I knew it was serious", I add.


She once again said sorry. And waving a goodbye kiss to son, I left.


When my son returned home from school, he seemed cheerful. He and the said girl had patched up and played together again. I had asked him to share the toys henceforth so that the incidence doesn't repeat. But from that day, he started reporting everything in detail to me, specially about the girl. She did this, she did that. She said this to me, she said that to me.



"You know mom...she had brought... egg in the tiffin. And the teacher.... scolded her. There are kids who don't eat... non..veg so not to bring eggs...chicken... fish in the... tiffins ", he said.

"But the teacher should tell her mom and not scold her .....", I stopped mid sentence. "I shouldn't be telling him this, making his teacher look bad", I thought.


"Never mind, we won't be eating eggs in tiffin. Okay champ", I hi-five him.


The next day, he had a story of how there was a fight among few boys, and how he and his new friend (that girl), helped to solve the issue.

The other day, he told me that she had forgotten her book, so he shared his book with her. "Sharing is caring", he said aloud.

Everyday, he had a tale to share with me. And then finally I thought may be he's cooking up some of them, as some of the stories were turning out adventurous.  "I climbed the stool to rub the board while she was holding the stool for me. She jumped from the last two steps of the staircase, and I tried doing the same...".


Now I had to go to the school and know more about this. 'Vi...gi..ant', you see.


I visited the teacher and shared the tales of these two brave hearts. Also got the contact number of the girl's mom.

She turned out to be a friend's friend. We chatted over coffee. And shared the tales to tally if they were true. Some of them were, but some were far from reality. And  just like the tail of my son's tale, which was never ending, her daughter's tales were amaranthine too!



This whole story isn't true, some parts are cooked up by the author!




AUTHOR'S NOTE: Kids love to weave stories. As adults we must encourage them, even if they are untrue. Their imagination and creativity is hence enhanced. If my mom wouldn't have believed my stories, I wouldn't be on this platform today.

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