History on The Wall

Sharing family history is often fraught with the usual dangers. Sharing it with a four year old makes it the proverbial Pandora's Box. You draw the family tree, then you fill in the dots and explain it as best as you can. It doesn't help when visits to the family are far and few between. Many explanations later, here's what happened:

Dhruv (in Dehra Dun): This is my Nanaji, where is my Naniji?
Me: (in an emotionally controlled voice) Bachche, she died.
Dhruv: What, she died, what happened?
Me: She was sick.
Dhruv: The doctor didn't give her medicine?
Me: He did.
Dhruv: What happened, Mamma, I want my Naniji.
Me: Me too.
Dhruv: Then bring her back.
Me: But she is in heaven.
Dhruv: Heaven, where is heaven?
Me: Can we stop now?
Dhruv: Heaven, where is heaven?
Me: Where God is.
Dhruv: Where is God?
I pretend I can't hear anymore as the drone of what, where, why continues.

We head to Chandigarh next and here it's my Nanaji's potrait on the wall in the drawing room that stirs his imagination:
Dhruv: Who is that?
Me: Nanaji
Dhruv: But Nanaji is in Dehra Dun?
Me: Not your Naniji Dhruv, this is mine, your great grand Nanaji.
Dhruv (faking the all knowing voice): Ooooh
Me: He died.
Dhruv: He died! What happened?
Me: Please ask Masiji.
I am hoping to avoid an interrogation Doon style and I imagine since the wheres, whys and where tos aren't thrust on Masi everyday, she will be patient. I hear the voices of shock, disbelief and awe wafting through the kitchen together with the fragrance of the tadka. The story of the war, the brave soldier that Nanaji was, the medals of honour, the walk in the mountains, the fall, the blood, the injury, the death, the sorrow. I am tempted to put my book mark in and warn Masi of the perils of spinning real life tales with Dhruv, they always have the potential to take on some rather serious forms. This one does the very next day.

We are at Sindhi Sweets in Sector 17, where Dhruv is delighted to order his plain dosa. I'm hoping that coupled with the mango juice will restrict his table talk. If wishes were horses..... Dhruv is in full chat mode, fluttering eye lashes, naughty eyes, the works. Soon the family on the next table is engaged in an animated discussion with him. It all seems to going fine, with his school, his Roshmi Mam, his playground, then out of nowhere, he swerves:

"You know, my Naniji died. He went to the war. Boom, boom, there was guns. Big fire. Then he went on the mountain, he fell down. The blood came out, he died. They gave him medals, he is hanging on Naniji's wall now."

The story begins and ends like the rapid fire round. I know the hanging on the wall sounds so darn wrong, I want to explain but I resist. Sheepishly, I tell the lovely folks who are eyeing the nearest exit and want to keep their kids at bay from us: "Just ignore him, he talks too much."

Hoping against hope, I believe this is all over. I tell Masi about it and she is merely amused. That is till the phone rings the next day. Dhruv wants to answer it and he does:

Hello, who is calling?
(silence)
Mamaji?
(silence)
Where are you?
(silence)
Oh, Allahabad....
(silence)
Are you dead?

Masi grabs the receiver, I give her my I told you so look, we know the battle has only just begun.