First things first. Every baby, by simply being a baby, is a successful baby. Being a baby is all any baby has to do in order to be a baby, and they all seem to be remarkably good at it. It is a powerful truth that eludes many grown-ups. But we are not talking about grown-ups here, are we?

We are discussing the ways of a creature far more motivated and discriminating. A being wiser than most that write our books or speak to us through TV or radio. A miracle that just might be the only reason higher powers tolerate our existence.

After nearly a fortnight in Cuttack, I am on board the Konark Express heading back Mumbaiwards. Home was sweet and all but I could use a bit more of the monsoon. The train will pull up at Dadar station late at night.

I have leafed through a couple of magazines and am now forced to look beyond the confines of my top berth. A tiny baby civilisation of sorts has sprouted up down there. It started, methinks, after we passed Secunderabad. Mostly Andhra Pradeshis. Their leader, however is Oriya (the unmistakable tilak mark from Jagannath Puri on his forehead).

“You,” Screamed Reema, “are a hypocrite!”

Paras considered the accusation for a moment. A hypocrite is someone who says something but does something else, or doesn’t do what he says. The meaning was open to interpretation. He kept quiet. He didn’t consider himself old enough to judge.

Reema screamed again, “You say you love dogs. But you wouldn’t let Bozo near Rohan.” Paras gave her a what-the-heck look. “Bozo could swallow Golu alive and not even burp.” Paras pointed out. Eleven-month-old Rohan seemed to agree (He never protested to anything much anyway.).

Over time, Rohan Mishra had resigned himself to people rubbing and pinching his face. He found it very annoying. And though he didn’t know much about law, he was reasonably sure he couldn’t sue them for violating his personal space. Not yet anyway.

I must really do something about this language thing, he had often told himself. A furrowed brow just wasn’t enough.

Desperate times usually call out loud for desperate actions. Rohan did too. But perhaps the reason no one ever listened to his cries was because he tended to do it too often. The calling-for-desperate-actions thing that is. He felt alone, without a hope (usually when he wasn’t busy watching TV or eating.).

I have often wished I were the author of a comic strip. Sadly, I can’t draw for peanuts. Actually, I can draw for peanuts (one would have to be terribly incompetent to be unable to draw for peanuts). However, peanuts are pretty much all I can draw for.

Charles Schulz, the man who drew the world famous comic strip Peanuts wasn’t that great with the pencil himself. But he somehow managed to be worthy of much more than peanuts.

I, on the other hand, can only lay claim to the Golu Tales. And I haven’t been worthy of peanuts myself.

Rohan Mishra wasn’t entirely sure he liked Holi. First of all, he didn’t seem to find the idea of people rubbing his face amusing. People pinched his face all the time and it had ceased to be funny long ago. Secondly, almost everyone he knew suddenly started looking like Daffy Duck. That wasn’t funny either.

Thankfully, mummy was equally against people rubbing chemicals on his face. So he got to sit in the balcony and watch hordes and hordes of Daffy Ducks march by, shouting, singing, fighting, ripping each others clothes off and doing things of a generally barbaric nature that Rohan liked to see. Some even waved to him and yelled ‘Golu’ at him but he didn’t recognise them.