Rohan Mishra stood in the balcony holding the railings. He turned mummy-wards every few seconds and she served him some tasty white goo with a spoon. He would then resume his squirrel watching.

Through the branches of the neem tree, Rohan saw 13-month-old Disha Das in her balcony. She was walking out of the door. Eager voices from within egged her on. She stopped and tottered. “Fall, Fall!” Rohan wished. But she turned around and walked back into the room, towards cheers and loud claps. “They will spoil her this way.” Rohan thought as he gulped down his food.

Rohan Mishra decided he liked ice cream a lot. He thought he probably liked ice cream more than he liked mummy and felt ashamed of himself. So he put the ice cream away.

He had spent the last two days practicing his English and now knew three words. One was Banana. The other two were too hard to pronounce (but he knew them). He had been using his spare time to say Banana whenever he could. One could never practice enough.

It was a hot Saturday afternoon. The mummies were chatting and the daddies were watching cricket. 15-month-old Rohan Mishra (Golu) was lying on his back in the middle of a giant (by his standards) bed and was expressing his dissatisfaction with the general quality of life somewhat loudly. In time, his limited lung capacity wore out and he stopped for breath.

“This is most embarrasing,” he said to himself. “I can’t walk yet. As if that’s not enough, I get no respect. You would think they would pay some attention to my bawling, but no. Can things get worse?”