20 April 1984

I was in a hurry to go out. But I heard the calling bell. It was the young lady next door... 

“Uncle…Do you know what Rohit did last night? It was really funny!” Rohit is her 4 years old son and the darling of our apartments. I was used to such introductions from her   over the last 5 years, right from when Rohit’s family moved next door. As usual she started telling the story; some times inconvenient and irritating; sometimes hilariously funny; sometimes just plain boring. But mothers never understand this; you can’t stop them till they finish. I know that I will be late for my appointment. Let me tell you  that her opening line is simply  the preface to a story that can  run for hours often  with flash backs from  her childhood thrown in to  add to the  twists and turns of the story ....

Have you ever noticed mothers when they talk about their child? Surely you can’t miss the obvious pride in their animated tone and proud eyes. Most of them are in a trance during that time. They could not sense our thoughts and look into our eyes which would show (very openly) everything but interest in the ongoing monotone.

What happened last night around 11pm was that Rohit was crying for a burger which could be bought next morning only. Rohit’s mother told “Darling, if you don’t stop crying, God will come and separate us. You will be put into a hostel”. The child stopped and thought for a moment “Is it mom? Like you peel the skin and separate beans and put them into a pot; Will God peel my hands and then legs and later put me into hostel?” Everybody laughed. Of course he could get burger plus ice-cream next morning for our extra laughter.

Rohit’s mother without any consideration for me went back to her 4^th year and  set on describing the encounter with her police-officer-dad who had to, at last  go and fetch a cutlet( The Pizza of 70s)for her at 5’o clock in the morning when they were in Delhi.

I usually keep quiet when people tell me stories; in fact some times I pretend to follow, while my mind might be wandering elsewhere. I hope, I can safely assume that’s it’s not just me .I am sure most of you have the same attitude in such situations.

NOW 24 Dec 2011

Calling bell again rang. It was Rohit’s mother.  But this time I am not in a hurry at all. She has brought a copy of e-mail from her grand daughter, Priyanka. It is a letter to ‘Maths’.

‘Dear Maths,

Please grow soon. Try to solve your problems. Leave us free and enjoy our life.’

 “Uncle, What a letter! She is intelligent like her father. ANOTHER THING.I am writing a book on “Families and the changing relationships”.

Could you write me an introduction?’ (What a chance for people like me!)

 Now she is a professor of Tamil; writes often in magazines; speaks in meetings.

I silently nodded and started writing “Rohit, sometimes a rogue, but most of the times a darling and budding hero of our apartments. The author of this book showed great patience and confidence on her son…….and so on”

She was happy with the opening lines. When I finished the intro she told

“Uncle, I am very happy for the foreword. I’ll send a copy of this to that lovely rogue now at NASA on a special tour selected and sent by our space department.” She was beaming with pride. Mothers never change though change is the only permanent thing in this ever changing world.

Note on Preface and Foreword;

If it is your book and your own introduction or the editor’s intro, it is called ‘preface’. Just think Rohit’s mother went into the shoes of Rohit in 1980s and told about her son. She used to give interesting intros.

If it is your book and you ask the next door uncle or a known person to write an intro, then it is called ‘foreword.’

PS: I thank Mr.Mani for asking a question about ‘Preface and Foreword’.

Thanks to Gowtham for the joke on maths.