We called him Munnu Chacha*, a lanky young man darker in complexion than most in our family, a little awkward around the older members and at ease among children. He was my father’s cousin- his maternal aunt’s son. Children just loved him; I still believe that I loved him the most. He lived with his parents in Lucknow. Since we visited Lucknow rarely, mostly for weddings or some other family events, we solely depended to see him on his visitations to Allahabad. Fortunately, he came to Allahabad to write for various service-exams, IAS, PCS, Probationary officer for State Bank of India and so many others, sometimes many times in a month. And when he came he bought one children’s magazine namely, Champak, Nandan, Parag, Chandamama, or a copy of Amarchitra Katha, for us. But that was not the only reason I looked forward to his visits- he also provided live entertainment.
I remember sitting on the sofa with my sister and watching him in awe while he performed magic tricks for us. A minute his thumb would detach from its root and start to shift towards the tip of the forefinger, and the next minute it would be whole again. Years later I would understand the trick, but still I have to come across a person who can be as deft as he was. Many coins had disappeared into the flesh of his arm and none left a mark. We would remain intrigued for hours. Was it his perfection or our inexperienced eyes that made those tricks seem remarkably perplexing? I still could not decide one way or the other. But regardless, he was perfect! It was fun to watch him shave. His angular gaunt face would scrunch and wrinkle when he wanted to shave the difficult places, like under the chin or near the nose. He took extra care when shaving near the nose; after all he had a nifty moustache to guard. I used to be so scared that he would nick, because of the angles on his thin face. My grandmother was often reprimanding him on his scrawny physique, but she very well knew that he had taken after his mother, her younger sister. He was fortunate she would say, because he resembled his mother. I would agree happily and wish for his good fortune- at that time it was the wish that he became a government officer soon. I was eight years old he must have been 22.
Years later (4, I think), my aunt’s family had moved to Lucknow** and the following summer my grandmother made plans to visit them for some time. There also was a wedding. Munnu-chacha’s older brother was getting married. My sister and I were excited. I had settled down after my grandmother gave me a good scolding for asking for the 100th time, if we would see Munnu-Chacha. The answer in affirmative, each time, was still not fulfilling. I had nothing to pack just a few storybooks; the rest was on my grandmother. Next morning we started for Lucknow and reached soon, as the train-journey lasted only 3-4 hours. Excited we got down of the train and my uncle (Bua’s husband) promptly received us. That evening we visited Munnu Chacha’s house, he was not there, but came back shortly, to our relief. We had bragged immensely to our cousins about his magic tricks and also felt contemptuous that we had witnessed something they had not, as yet. He entered the room and we greeted him with euphoric glee, we instantly demanded for the magic show. My grandmother eyed us sternly, but his willingness forced us to disregard her reproachful glance. He gracefully submitted to our requests and steered us into the verandah outside. We watched the tricks with newfound enthusiasm, that it had been performed umpteen times before, did not occur to us. Then he took us to the makeshift zoo that his veterinary brother, also the betrothed one, had made. A few rabbits, a fawn, a mongoose and many guinea pigs were the members. It was a fulfilling visit.
For the next two years we would be out of touch from Munnu Chacha, Lucknow also had become a center for those exams that my uncle kept appearing in many times before. He also was working part-time in the University. We were children with short memories and a whole lot of schoolwork. Although we never did forget our uncle, we definitely were growing out of the fascination for his tricks. It was after my eighth grade that we revisited Lucknow again. I had grown and was a discomfited little teenager by then. I don’t think I felt eager to meet Munnu Chacha that time. But we did meet. He joked around and I felt embarrassed that I could have been fooled into some fake magic and squirmed internally for my naivety. Those were difficult adolescent years.
In summers terrace makes for an improvised communal bedroom. It was fun watching the moonlight reflect on white cotton sheets crisp and fresh from the washer man’s house. We would go up first, after the beds were laid and wait for the adults to join us, wishing secretly that they took longer than usual. Our garrulous sessions would end with their arrival. But nonetheless they did arrive compelling us to retreat into a forced silence, faking sleep. That night started in the same manner, until the adults arrived. We were feigning sleep as usual. Adults remained unusually quiet that evening, until my grandmother let a sigh escape her lips. Her daughter was by her side, we watched the silhouettes, and she was consoling my grandmother, who seemed to be taking her spectacles out to wipe her eyes. I sat up; it was rather unsettling for me to watch my strong grandmother weep. Soon my sister and cousin followed my action and we all sat around my grandmother. “What happened?” we asked for the umpteen time. “Nothing, you all go and sleep,” was an unconvincing reply, every time. We understood that it was a delicate moment and scolding us is not what my grandmother would do at that time. We pressed our case and were enlightened of the shocking phone-news- Munnu Chacha had met an accident while driving his bike. The collision was with a truck and Munnu Chacha had landed on his back with a fatal thrust to the back of his head. He was in the hospital, in coma, and things did not look well. I remember myself gaping at my grandmother in disbelief. I remember the scenes pass before my eyes from my childhood where he performed the magic and I sat agape. I was devastated and remember giving out a painful wail, to the surprise of my grandmother and aunt. After a long time my uncle joined us at the terrace, he had just come back from the hospital. My grandmother’s sister was given sedatives to soothe her down into a slumber, he informed. Her husband was in proper control of his emotions and the next day was set for a brain surgery.
I did not sleep the whole night, weeping, while my sister who slept next to me consoled me with a soft pat on my shoulder, whenever my sobs woke her up. The next morning, I sat watching the sun come up, when my aunt came up to wake us up. My grandmother saw the bags under my eyes I did not need to ask her permission to accompany her to the hospital. She advised me that we might not be able to see Munnu Chacha- it did not matter, as I still wanted to go.
When we reached the hospital my grandmother’s sister was sitting on the bench outside the operation-theatre. She had aged in a night. Her lean body now looked tired and weak. Her husband next to her had a tragic look on his face that scared me. I was in the habit of being greeted by them with a smile and pat on my back. That look they exhibited that day was new and daunting to me. I sat beside my grandmother and I think I was clutching at her sari-end, because I remember her prying it out of my hands. I had to return with my aunt, I was way too young to endure the long day and the lurking tragedy to conclude.
On my return I saw my sister and cousins huddled around the TV, it was a weekend, some godforsaken movie was on. I sat down and tried to catch on to the silent wonder that the other children had on their faces. The afternoon, evening and night passed almost in silence with episodic exchange of words when they were absolutely necessary. My grandmother returned late in the evening and ate a few bites on my aunt’s insistence. That night no adult got a chance to admonish us for delaying bedtime. We followed the routine without any duress from the adults. I slept fitfully and I think so did the others. The night was calm and very silent as if it had plunged into the morose mood-pattern of the household. My grandmother and aunt slept downstairs in the rooms; they wanted to be at an accessible distance from the phone.
I was an early riser, but the next morning I did not wake up until the sun was in my eyes and that too because my cousin was whispering in my ear, “Munnu Mama has passed away.” I woke up startled, the hair on my arms stood erect and my eyes dilated. Teenagers can be insensitively foolish, so was he. What a way to tell such tragic news? I would hate him for months later, to be the bearer of that devastating news, and on his method of delivery. But mostly I felt angry that my dear Munnu Chacha had passed away. He had just availed an officer’s position with the State government; his endless efforts had been fruitful. He was on his way back after celebrating that attainment with his friends. He was also engaged and the wedding was scheduled for December. He was 28 at that time. His life met an end when we all thought it was actually beginning. People said he was lucky that he resembled his mother. What a joke!
I ran downstairs to look for my grandmother, but she had left in the middle of the night, to be at the side of her grieving sister. Of course, that was where she should be, but I too needed solace. I rushed to the bathroom where nobody could hear me cry with the tap water flowing in the metallic bucket. It took me an hour to let the grief out of my system only to realize that it welled up in my heart soon after it emptied itself. My grandmother did not return that night. I waited for her eagerly, so that I could bury my head in her bosom and feel secure again. Needless to say, I was shaken.
We were there for the cremation ceremonies that followed soon after. I got an opportunity to see his mother several times in the following few years. She was never the same jovial self. She rarely gave way to the jingly laughter that she had, which I loved. Four years later she joined her son, after a short illness. Munnu Chacha was her youngest child.
* Chacha- paternal uncle (father’s younger brother/cousin).
** Lucknow- a city in northern India.
Friday, October 13, 2006
Storyteller’s Stories
Published on www.serenelight.org and www.thingsasian.com
Some, in the village, said that she was out of her mind. Some even discouraged me from going to her. But my fascination towards a good story always led me to her. For one sitting of story I gave her a piece of jaggery1 and two cups of rice, which my mother let me have whenever I wanted to. That made the storyteller happy, her broken-tooth grin on receiving that fee beamed out a satisfaction. She was not a beggar. But a poor old woman who was thought to have lost her head, after her son left for the city never to return. With no husband to support her and her old-age induced inability to work her wage, she tried to survive on the help of the villagers who took pity on her when they wanted to. But my visits to the village during summers gave her a job, which she obviously loved.
All her stories started with one usual phrase, “This is a true story.” After listening to five of her stories it became very clear to me why some assumed her to be nutty. It was just because of her overly animated and enthusiastic method of telling a story. Her eyes would widen as if she was herself mesmerized by the tale she was spinning as she narrated it out to me. Her hands flayed in excited gesticulations and she would frequently get up and act out the scene to her listeners. The hard-working villagers did not understand that or the emotions that flowed through her stories. They thought that to be a waste of their times. She would stop them once in a while and ask, “Do you want to listen to a story?” To which they would reply, “No time mother,” and walk away smilingly.
She was full of stories and I believe that stories kept bubbling in her all the time. When she sat on her doorsteps waiting for an eager audience, her eyes gave a glint. You could tell that another story was in the making inside of her. That was how I remember her from our first meeting. I was a ten-year-old child taking a tour of the village with my father, who was village chief at the time. She had asked him the same question, “Babu2, do you want to listen to a story?” My father had waved at her in a combination of acknowledgement and dismissal. But that offer had already caught my interest. And I said, to her disbelief, I might add, “Yes, I want to.” Only after little coaxing my father let me be with her, leaving an attendant behind to bring me back home after the story session ended. The first story that she told me was about a little bird.
There was a little bird that accidentally landed in the nest of two other birds. There, that little bird was mistreated and pecked incessantly by the accidental foster mother. Her foster father tried to peck her out of the nest many times. But amazingly he could never throw her out of her nest. The chick realized how much bigger she was from her foster parents. The pecking still continued but as she grew bigger the foster parents started to leave her alone.
Then she learned to fly on her own and one day flew away from the nest. Only to return a few months later and see a snake trying to steal the eggs her foster mother had just laid. Her foster parents’ nervous and constant chirping attracted her attention. For some time she observed the snake’s oblivion towards the birds and the powerless frustration of her foster parents. She felt sorry for them and swooped down to snatch the snake. That saved her brothers and sisters. That was when she realized that snake was her food and that she was an eagle. Afterward she came down to sit on a tree close by and watched her foster parents rolling the eggs. Their anxiety had receded and they appeared to have the ability to love. Eagle thought why they couldn’t love her.
As she lamented silently for the love she craved but couldn’t receive she saw her parents looking at her. After a while they flew to the branch the eagle was sitting at and snuggled under her wings. Their remorse and gratefulness made the eagle very happy.
She had poked my arms when telling about the pecking the little bird received. She got up from the floor and tried to emulate the eagle swooping down on the snake and of the snake’s curled body in her beak. In the end she hugged me to depict the last scene of the story. The whole story is still engraved in motion in my brain. She was a dramatic storyteller.
She told me a horrifying tale once. And she had started with the same phrase, “This story is true.”
There once was a grass-reaper. She was so good in reaping grass that almost everybody in the village hired her to cut the unwanted grass. This grass-reaper had a goat at home and so she was very happy to reap grass as that made for the food for her goat. The king of the village once called her to reap the grass of his garden and was so pleased with her that he gave her two cows in return. Now the grass-reaper needed more grass. So, she would get out of her house at dawn and come home at noon with three loads of grass for the goat and the two cows. After she fed the animals and ate her lunch she would spend all afternoon making yogurt and butter from the milk she got from the cows and the goat. Every week she went to the bazaar and sold the yogurt and butter.
She worked very hard everyday. Soon she realized that the reaper’s blade was becoming too weathered from constant cutting and sharpening. “Soon there will be no metal left on the blade,” she told herself, “I should buy another reaper from the bazaar next week.” And so she did. Now she was able to reap more grass faster. Quickly her goat and cows became quite fat.
One day the king called for her and asked her to reap all the tall grass that had grown near the pond, which was in his palace. She knew that nobody else would work in that area as it was known to be full of snakes. She hesitated a little. But how could she refuse the king. And how could she deny all the grass she would get to take home. Moreover, she knew that nobody could reap grass faster than her. She thought, “This new reaper is quite sharp. I can probably kill any snake that comes in my way.”
She hummed as she cut the grass. The sun was shining on her face on that early summer morning. She was happy. Grass was soft and light green as early summer grass should be. Her reaper glided swiftly over the tender grass. In an hour she had accumulated two loads of grass. She would stop every now and then to look behind her and marvel at the area she cleaned so quickly then bend over hurriedly as she saw the larger area, in front, that still needed to be reaped.
She reaped continuously for hours. When the sun was about to set she cleaned the blade of the reaper and admired its shiny sharp edge. Then she went to the pond to wash it. As soon as she dipped her hand in water she felt a stinging rising in her fingers. And she understood that a snake had bitten her right thumb. In an instant she snatched her reaper from the ground and slammed its shiny edge over her thumb letting the dismembered digit fall in water. Tears started to flow down her face as the pain took over. As she looked over the pond water she saw a snake swim away. His hood, above water, sported a distinct “U” mark as he glided majestically away from his victim. Her body was trembling from the fear and pain. Not many had survived a King Cobra’s venom. And how could she forget that her younger brother had died, at six years of age, in only half-an-hour after a Cobra bit him.
I sat looking at her face in awe as she finished the story. “What happened then?”
“Well, she lived. In fact she is still alive.”
“I thought this was just a story.”
“No, I told you that this was a true story.”
“Oh! Where is that woman now?”
“Why? Do you want to meet her?”
“Yes.”
“All right!”
And with that she let her hand dance in front of my face. It had a thumb missing.
Later, when I had recovered from the shock of realizing that the story was indeed true. I asked her, “What if he bit your ear?”
“I would have cut my ear off. That would have been better, because that wouldn’t make me deaf. But without a thumb I can never use my reaper.”
I have hence believed that all the stories she told me were true, even the most fanciful ones in which animals could talk like humans. I feared to ask who in reality that eagle was.
Notes:
1- Jaggery is the traditional unrefined sugar made from sugarcane. It is sometimes molded in round shape or cut into rectangular pieces.
2- Babu is a traditional Indian term for “Sir”.
Some, in the village, said that she was out of her mind. Some even discouraged me from going to her. But my fascination towards a good story always led me to her. For one sitting of story I gave her a piece of jaggery1 and two cups of rice, which my mother let me have whenever I wanted to. That made the storyteller happy, her broken-tooth grin on receiving that fee beamed out a satisfaction. She was not a beggar. But a poor old woman who was thought to have lost her head, after her son left for the city never to return. With no husband to support her and her old-age induced inability to work her wage, she tried to survive on the help of the villagers who took pity on her when they wanted to. But my visits to the village during summers gave her a job, which she obviously loved.
All her stories started with one usual phrase, “This is a true story.” After listening to five of her stories it became very clear to me why some assumed her to be nutty. It was just because of her overly animated and enthusiastic method of telling a story. Her eyes would widen as if she was herself mesmerized by the tale she was spinning as she narrated it out to me. Her hands flayed in excited gesticulations and she would frequently get up and act out the scene to her listeners. The hard-working villagers did not understand that or the emotions that flowed through her stories. They thought that to be a waste of their times. She would stop them once in a while and ask, “Do you want to listen to a story?” To which they would reply, “No time mother,” and walk away smilingly.
She was full of stories and I believe that stories kept bubbling in her all the time. When she sat on her doorsteps waiting for an eager audience, her eyes gave a glint. You could tell that another story was in the making inside of her. That was how I remember her from our first meeting. I was a ten-year-old child taking a tour of the village with my father, who was village chief at the time. She had asked him the same question, “Babu2, do you want to listen to a story?” My father had waved at her in a combination of acknowledgement and dismissal. But that offer had already caught my interest. And I said, to her disbelief, I might add, “Yes, I want to.” Only after little coaxing my father let me be with her, leaving an attendant behind to bring me back home after the story session ended. The first story that she told me was about a little bird.
There was a little bird that accidentally landed in the nest of two other birds. There, that little bird was mistreated and pecked incessantly by the accidental foster mother. Her foster father tried to peck her out of the nest many times. But amazingly he could never throw her out of her nest. The chick realized how much bigger she was from her foster parents. The pecking still continued but as she grew bigger the foster parents started to leave her alone.
Then she learned to fly on her own and one day flew away from the nest. Only to return a few months later and see a snake trying to steal the eggs her foster mother had just laid. Her foster parents’ nervous and constant chirping attracted her attention. For some time she observed the snake’s oblivion towards the birds and the powerless frustration of her foster parents. She felt sorry for them and swooped down to snatch the snake. That saved her brothers and sisters. That was when she realized that snake was her food and that she was an eagle. Afterward she came down to sit on a tree close by and watched her foster parents rolling the eggs. Their anxiety had receded and they appeared to have the ability to love. Eagle thought why they couldn’t love her.
As she lamented silently for the love she craved but couldn’t receive she saw her parents looking at her. After a while they flew to the branch the eagle was sitting at and snuggled under her wings. Their remorse and gratefulness made the eagle very happy.
She had poked my arms when telling about the pecking the little bird received. She got up from the floor and tried to emulate the eagle swooping down on the snake and of the snake’s curled body in her beak. In the end she hugged me to depict the last scene of the story. The whole story is still engraved in motion in my brain. She was a dramatic storyteller.
She told me a horrifying tale once. And she had started with the same phrase, “This story is true.”
There once was a grass-reaper. She was so good in reaping grass that almost everybody in the village hired her to cut the unwanted grass. This grass-reaper had a goat at home and so she was very happy to reap grass as that made for the food for her goat. The king of the village once called her to reap the grass of his garden and was so pleased with her that he gave her two cows in return. Now the grass-reaper needed more grass. So, she would get out of her house at dawn and come home at noon with three loads of grass for the goat and the two cows. After she fed the animals and ate her lunch she would spend all afternoon making yogurt and butter from the milk she got from the cows and the goat. Every week she went to the bazaar and sold the yogurt and butter.
She worked very hard everyday. Soon she realized that the reaper’s blade was becoming too weathered from constant cutting and sharpening. “Soon there will be no metal left on the blade,” she told herself, “I should buy another reaper from the bazaar next week.” And so she did. Now she was able to reap more grass faster. Quickly her goat and cows became quite fat.
One day the king called for her and asked her to reap all the tall grass that had grown near the pond, which was in his palace. She knew that nobody else would work in that area as it was known to be full of snakes. She hesitated a little. But how could she refuse the king. And how could she deny all the grass she would get to take home. Moreover, she knew that nobody could reap grass faster than her. She thought, “This new reaper is quite sharp. I can probably kill any snake that comes in my way.”
She hummed as she cut the grass. The sun was shining on her face on that early summer morning. She was happy. Grass was soft and light green as early summer grass should be. Her reaper glided swiftly over the tender grass. In an hour she had accumulated two loads of grass. She would stop every now and then to look behind her and marvel at the area she cleaned so quickly then bend over hurriedly as she saw the larger area, in front, that still needed to be reaped.
She reaped continuously for hours. When the sun was about to set she cleaned the blade of the reaper and admired its shiny sharp edge. Then she went to the pond to wash it. As soon as she dipped her hand in water she felt a stinging rising in her fingers. And she understood that a snake had bitten her right thumb. In an instant she snatched her reaper from the ground and slammed its shiny edge over her thumb letting the dismembered digit fall in water. Tears started to flow down her face as the pain took over. As she looked over the pond water she saw a snake swim away. His hood, above water, sported a distinct “U” mark as he glided majestically away from his victim. Her body was trembling from the fear and pain. Not many had survived a King Cobra’s venom. And how could she forget that her younger brother had died, at six years of age, in only half-an-hour after a Cobra bit him.
I sat looking at her face in awe as she finished the story. “What happened then?”
“Well, she lived. In fact she is still alive.”
“I thought this was just a story.”
“No, I told you that this was a true story.”
“Oh! Where is that woman now?”
“Why? Do you want to meet her?”
“Yes.”
“All right!”
And with that she let her hand dance in front of my face. It had a thumb missing.
Later, when I had recovered from the shock of realizing that the story was indeed true. I asked her, “What if he bit your ear?”
“I would have cut my ear off. That would have been better, because that wouldn’t make me deaf. But without a thumb I can never use my reaper.”
I have hence believed that all the stories she told me were true, even the most fanciful ones in which animals could talk like humans. I feared to ask who in reality that eagle was.
Notes:
1- Jaggery is the traditional unrefined sugar made from sugarcane. It is sometimes molded in round shape or cut into rectangular pieces.
2- Babu is a traditional Indian term for “Sir”.
This I Believe: In my Children I Believe
Note: This is inspired by 'This I Believe..." series on National Public Radio. NPR listeners from all walks of life share their one strong belief in highly articulate fashion. Their beliefs inspire everybody who listens and reads these essays. This article was originally published on www.serenelight.org in July-Aug, 2006 issue.
This I Believe: In my Children I Believe
I used to believe that I could sing wonderfully. I sang when it rained and on glorious starry moonless nights. I sang when happy and extremely sad. Overall, singing made me feel better. So, when one day a friend told me candidly that my voice did not have much quality forsinging, I was rather disappointed and discouraged.
In the following years, even though I listened to all kinds of beautiful music, I forgot my passion for singing. I reserved my singing practices for the showers. I became in all sense a bathroom-singer. Since I came to Virginia, my sinuses were usually affected by allergies. Finally, one day in the shower, I realized that I not only have lost all sense of smell, but I cannot take a high pitch or go very low while I sang. It was settled for me-singing had to be left for another life.
Years after, as I held my infant daughter in my arms, trying to calm her down, a few words sprang from my lips. Magically, they made a rhyming song and they seemed to have a soothing effect on her. So, I wrote down those words. I had rediscovered my singing talents and a lyricist hidden in me too. Then I had my son who, reasonably speaking, had to have his own little song. Still at times I was worried that my gravelly and out of tone singing might bother my children. The concurrent and recurrent occurrence, with my singing was that my children would stop and listen to the claptrap. Thus, I kept singing and making spontaneous songs with less meaning butenough assonance like quality.So, one night when I picked up my 3-year old daughter's favorite Dr. Seuss book. She pushed it aside and said, Mama sing my song. She actually preferred her song in my unmusical voice to Dr. Seuss. Wow! I thought to myself, my sweet doll must really love me. My son is at the stage when he can articulate very little, but when it comes to showing preference he has made his liking for his own song clear, like his sister.Since then I have overhauled my belief system a bit. I believe in my children. I believe in the confidence that comes with motherhood. I believe that there are many correct ways to be a good parent. I believe that children will accept whatever comes with love. Do I believe in my musical talents? From the creative point of view- maybe not. From the love and power it exudes for my children- absolutely!
I used to believe that I could sing wonderfully. I sang when it rained and on glorious starry moonless nights. I sang when happy and extremely sad. Overall, singing made me feel better. So, when one day a friend told me candidly that my voice did not have much quality forsinging, I was rather disappointed and discouraged.
In the following years, even though I listened to all kinds of beautiful music, I forgot my passion for singing. I reserved my singing practices for the showers. I became in all sense a bathroom-singer. Since I came to Virginia, my sinuses were usually affected by allergies. Finally, one day in the shower, I realized that I not only have lost all sense of smell, but I cannot take a high pitch or go very low while I sang. It was settled for me-singing had to be left for another life.
Years after, as I held my infant daughter in my arms, trying to calm her down, a few words sprang from my lips. Magically, they made a rhyming song and they seemed to have a soothing effect on her. So, I wrote down those words. I had rediscovered my singing talents and a lyricist hidden in me too. Then I had my son who, reasonably speaking, had to have his own little song. Still at times I was worried that my gravelly and out of tone singing might bother my children. The concurrent and recurrent occurrence, with my singing was that my children would stop and listen to the claptrap. Thus, I kept singing and making spontaneous songs with less meaning butenough assonance like quality.So, one night when I picked up my 3-year old daughter's favorite Dr. Seuss book. She pushed it aside and said, Mama sing my song. She actually preferred her song in my unmusical voice to Dr. Seuss. Wow! I thought to myself, my sweet doll must really love me. My son is at the stage when he can articulate very little, but when it comes to showing preference he has made his liking for his own song clear, like his sister.Since then I have overhauled my belief system a bit. I believe in my children. I believe in the confidence that comes with motherhood. I believe that there are many correct ways to be a good parent. I believe that children will accept whatever comes with love. Do I believe in my musical talents? From the creative point of view- maybe not. From the love and power it exudes for my children- absolutely!
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