True Blooming

Sass and I saw the Little Big Shots together today.

It is one of her few favourites.

There’s usually music, lots of clapping and her absolute favourite in the world, KIDS!

That’s enough to have her engaged either running around breaking out in her faux-ballet moves or just plonking herself on top of me tapping her feet away.

On today’s show a boy with a a single arm (congenitally) came on who is a child golf champion. Well. If not the Champion yet I think he mentioned being number 4 nationally and number 7 internationally. He was of course brilliant but I just kept stealing a look at Sass in my lap as to how she would react to him missing a limb.

She was engrossed in the show as they showed his baby pictures etc. and him practicing prominently showing just one arm and the other stump.

With her eyes locked with the telly, she slowly started touching her own right arm near the shoulder.

I didn’t interrupt.

Just hugged her lightly as she continued to observe it very intently and unintentionally becoming aware of her own limb in place.

This manifestation of empathy or perhaps the first step towards it was fascinating to say the least. I saw her eyes grow darker and more focused as it kept going.

“Mama?” She absentmindedly said, not unlocking her gaze from the tv for a millisecond.

“Jee meri jaan?” (Yes my dear?) I responded.

“Bubby” (baby) she responded still not batting an eyelid.

Then quickly turned her face to me with a slightly urgent expression saying “haath?” (Hand?). She still hasn’t added the word arm or Baazoo to her vocabulary so Hand was the closest she got.

“Yes baby” I responded. “Bubby ka baazoo nahi hai” (Bubby doesn’t have an arm) as I gathered her closer to my heart in a warm hug. “Bubby was born that way” I said.

She looked at my face and then turned back towards the TV. Frantic expressions deepening into a little calm.

As she kept observing him swing his stump and play flawlessly, laugh and play through it all, what really made me burst into tears was my 21 month old putting her one arm around my neck and painting towards the television with the other hand saying “Phool!” With a half smile half thoughtfulness on her face.

Phool is Urdu for flower.

Bless her soul that seems to have lived way more than her mere months in this lifetime.