Look at me

Every child has their most frequently used phrase that, kind of, encapsulated their childhood. You see, like my brother’s was, “I don’t know”, which was an answer to almost all the questions my mother put to him after he misplaced his water-bottle, books, schoolbag, lunchbox, et al. 

Mine, on the other hand was, “Show me”, since I was always bursting with curiosity about anything and everything. I believe the minute our daughter was born, I blurted this too, through waves of postnatal exhaustion. I remember the doctor smiling warily before she handed me my brand new baby. 

Our delightful kid grew up amidst regular chants of “Mummy, look at me”! If I was busy in the kitchen, I would hear her childish treble exclaim, “Papa, look at me”. Whatever the little-one did, whether it was serving tea from a tiny toy teapot, painting a large cookie monster or giving us an imaginary baking demonstration, her most consistent refrain to her parents was to “look at her”.

Which we did, most of the time, but being a good-natured sort of baby, she did not mind if we did not give her our undivided attention. Except while she was dancing in front of the television, which was when we had to drop whatever we were doing and watch her.

Now the thing is, when she was three years old she discovered that she pirouetted best in front of the TV when the news was going on. The top of her tiny head barely reached the bottom of the television screen that was placed on a wooden stand in our living room. I don’t know whether it was my husband or me who encouraged her to dance when the news was playing but it was a brilliant strategy on our part. This way, our eyes could easily shift between the screen and her twirling form, without her having to utter the plaintive entreaty, even once. 

As she grew taller her head started blocking out the screen in front of us and we had to find a polite way to ask her to step aside. And then suddenly, one day, she decided to stop dancing to the news and we realised that she had grown-up. 

Lately, as a senior researcher for a political think tank in London, our daughter has been on the global news channels quite a bit. As we watch her being interrogated by some of the finest minds in international journalism, our hearts swell with pride. 

The minute we get to know that she is going to be broadcast live at any particular time, we get our respective iPhone cameras and position ourselves around the idiot box. The image of her as a little girl twirling joyfully in front of the television screen recurs repeatedly in my mind’s eye. I wonder if any other child in some another part of the world is similarly dancing to my daughter’s voice during the news transmission. 

“Can you move your arm from my line of vision?” my husband said the other day. 

“But your elbow is blocking my recording,” I complained. 

“You record the footage then,” my spouse muttered, moving away. 

“Why are you back?” I asked as he returned the next minute. 

“Did you hear that?” he whispered.

“Show me,” I said automatically. 

“She just said, ‘Papa look at me!’” he grinned. 

“You are imagining things,” I mumbled. 

“No, no,” he protested. 

“She said, ‘Mummy look at me’,” I corrected.