I am experiencing the worst form of back-seat driving. The following is not a fictitious account and the persons in this drama are real and bear extreme resemblance to me and my 2.8 year-old boy. I have attempted here a transcription of what happens to me at least twice a day.
Scene: I am on the wheel, boy is behind me in the car seat.
Mamma, don’t fall my paani!
(That’s me driving over a speed-breaker.)
Sorry I fell your paani, but the road is full of potholes. How to drive? (I attempt a change of mood, and sing a cheery song)
What’s that noise mamma?
That’s me, singing.
Mamma. Don’t sing.
(I continue)
Mamma! Choo choo times I told you don’t sing!
(I stop singing. Suddenly there is a stretch of open road. Fourth gear, here I come!)
Mamma. Why you doing car-racing?
No, I am not doing car racing.
No, you doing car-racing. Look, mamma, you boke my cheese toast!
I had nothing to do with it. It was Re misjudging his bite.
Mamma, whose house that?
It’s HSBC’s house.
No, mamma, it’s not a house, it’s a bank!
Okay then.
Mamma, stop. I counting windows.
I can’t stop here, it’s peak traffic!
Just then, a car nicks me on the left while trying to overtake. I lose it.
Ben—–ten! I say.
Mamma, I told you don’t shout!
But I am not shouting at you. That uncle broke our side mirror.
Contemplative silence.
Mamma, I want to keep my bag on my lap. Please gimme my bag.
Bag is on lap. Along comes a bump. Car jumps.
What’s that noise mamma?
I decide to beat it at his own game. It’s BAD TRAFFIC noise. Suddenly I shout, GO AWAY, BAD TRAFFIC!
It works. He shouts too, YES, GO AWAY BAD TRAFFIC. WE WANT TO GO TO TOY SCHOOL. GO AWAY!
And thus, another trip to school is accomplished.
