“At least I am not a peacock,” says my little daughter cryptically, while eating her lunch.
I am astounded by that singular observation.
“Well, considering that it was my second dance, I could have been given a more important role- this is of a cowherd, coming in and out thrice- showering flowers. The two peacocks get to move their necks!”
I conclude the following : she was in a couple of performances and she did not like the rather insignificant role of a background dancer, and was taking consolation that she was at least not relegated as a peacock- which, apparently were roles done by two unfortunate youngsters, who got to just move their necks.
“Even being a peacock is fine. You get to stand on the stage, right?”
She looks at me as if I had lost my marbles.
“Amma! You would not have recognised me if I were a peacock- I would have had a beak and stuff! What is the point of being on stage when no one can see it is you?”
Indeed. She had a point there. Poor parents of peacocks! They will have to be content with the beaks.
“And I refused to have a moustache,” she adds casually.
“Oh, that would be rather nice!” I say.
This time she looks at me as if I never had any marbles to begin with.
” I asked the teacher whether Krishna had a barber?”
I almost fall off my chair.
“What?” Coming from me, that is speechlessness.
“Well, Krishna gets to be without a nasty black moustache. When she said all cowherds must have this huge moustache, I asked why Krishna alone had a barber.”
“Did he? I mean, did he have a barber?”
She drinks her water. While getting up, she says consolingly, ‘Amma, teacher said, I need not paint a moustache on my face.’
I empathise with the hapless teacher . It would have been tough work googling for barbers in the Dwapara Yuga.
“You will recognise me,” she says,” I come in three times and go back immediately in the Holi dance; but I will be the only cowherd without a moustache.”
I hug her and tell her that I would have recognised her in any role- even if she were a nicely beaked peacock.