Balloon Therapy

BALLOON THERAPY
(Short Story)

Kiiiiiiiiiiitch.....kiiiiiiiiiiiiitch......triiiiiiiiiiiiing......triiiiiiiiiiing. Between seven and seven thirty in the morning my son is up even from a deep slumber on hearing these sounds. He jolts of his bed as if coming out of a shock treatment and sits up. His face lights up involuntarily and the next second he is in the balcony yelling out, “Balloon uncle! Balloon uncle. Wait. I am coming.” The balloon-wallah persists to scratch his paraphernalia to make more screeching sounds. After all his call has been triumphantly received! He stops in front of our flats patiently.

The next step starts with my son pestering me for money and my stubbornly refusing to give it. It leads to my foul temper as I am head over heels into preparing breakfast and lunch for the family to be packed in another half an hour for all of us. The little one knows pretty well how to use the situation fully to bring pressure on me. He cries raucously as he is aware that any constant sound brings me an instant headache. The screeching of the balloons goes on and I feel my blood gushing through my veins. My handsomer half enters the scene; cajoles the boy, promises him many more wonderful things than the noisy balloons. He also assures him that he will buy him countless crackers for the ensuing Diwali; Diwali was over a fortnight ago in fact. Yet nothing convinces the boy. The curry in the pan on the stove gets over-fried and the cooker whistles and whistles calling my attention. The clock says it is quarter to eight. But I cannot concentrate on anything. So many sounds all around unnerve me and my head begins to ache dutifully. I shudder as it nags even in college while teaching. I rush out of the kitchen and dump the coins into the child’s hands who runs down in a jiffy and returns with a couple of different coloured balloons. I refuse to look at his dad to escape an ironic expression. It is a difficult-to-understand expression suggesting diverse undertones. Next the child has to be prepared in half an hour to attend his school.

This is the routine for us for almost four days a week with a slight variation in the timings of the arrival of the balloon vendor. Even the stuff bought varies. All “the-very-­precious-things-on-the-balloon-stand” are tried out. The small fellow has no time to play with them in the morning and on his return they are normally deflated or exploded. My husband and I thought over the problem very seriously as if in a high summit meeting and came up with different possible solutions. The master of the house suggested offering him money in lump-sum, triple of what he gets from us every month and requesting him to skip our lane. But I protested. It won’t help because he may not come to our road but certainly his kiiiiiiiitch from other parallel roads will reach my son’s ears which are conditioned. To prevent the vendor to avoid those roads also will cost us a fortune. Moreover do we have such rights? Will it lead to more problems? He may out of courtesy not come for a while but may turn up. We raked our brains and my wiser half really hit upon a wise idea. Get our bedrooms sound proof! I jumped at the idea and my husband immediately swung into action. Within a week our bedrooms have become soundproof. Our bank balance also considerably shrank.

I waited for the balloon screech to show the seller how we have outwitted him. After two days he came. Exactly between seven and seven thirty. My son is fast asleep in the bedroom oblivious of his friend’s faithful calls. I congratulated hubby for his wisdom as for about a month my child has clean forgotten about the balloon issue.

Our happiness did not last long. The balloon vendor changed his timings to the evening, a little after we returned from our respective duties. The battle started again. Tired after a day’s hectic work I gave in much easier than in mornings. Sometimes no protest at all from my side. No energy to protest. Henceforth the balloon fellow shifted his schedule to the evenings. And our-sound-proof-venture turned out to be futile.

I aired my defeat and sense of failure in the whole business with my friend who confessed that her niece in her early twenties is no different from my son on hearing the sound of a balloon. The only difference is that she does not ask her mom for money but buys from her own pocket money. It came as an enlightenment for me. Balloons have an irresistible attraction for kids. When a girl in her twenties can still be a kid at heart in this otherwise - absolutely – businesslike - world with no time for smaller pleasures of life why can’t my four-year-old child be? Compared to the amount of money we spend on unnecessary things how much am I really spending on balloons the selling of which is the profession of that poor man who has to fend for his family? What shall we lose in making him and my child happy by buying those balloons? Why did we think so stupidly all this while? Is it really because of money or work pressure? I began to feel mean. Repented for depriving the child of the pleasure of buying and playing with it and the seller, earning a few more coins. Since then I have never objected to buy the balloon for the child. The balloon therapy worked for me!
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‘Women have as much ability as men’

Women in statesmanship, managing territories, governing countries, even making war, have proved themselves equal to men–if not superior. In India I have no doubt of that. Whenever they have had the opportunity, they have proved that they have as much ability as men, with this advantage–that they seldom degenerate. They keep to the moral standard, which is innate in their nature. And thus as governors and rulers of their state, they prove–at least in India–far superior to men.
–The Complete Works of Swami Vivekananda, Vol. 9, p.20l