Rinku is Thirsty.

         The house was silent, in stark contrast to the clamour a mere hour ago as the immediate family had gathered to see off my daughter; she was leaving for Singapore on a two year posting from Almark Infosystems. I was truly alone for the first time in twenty-five years, with no hope of a visit for a good year at least. No more weekend whirlwind visits, no more calling up for every culinary crisis.

         I poured myself a glass of lemonade and eased my tired body onto the sofa, drawing up a footstool for sorely distressed feet. I looked at the beads of moisture condensing on the outside of the glass and my eyes filled up with unbidden tears as I remembered ‘un-lemonade'...

         It was an unusually hot day in mid-monsoon; I was waiting for my daughter to return from school. The door was open and I was adding the last touches of preparation to her after-school snack.

         There was familiar the thump-thump of the school bag. Nanni never carried it on her shoulders a fraction of second more than she had to. The last step over the threshold was always unencumbered by its burden and it juddered as it was dragged over the one inch sill.

         Two plops announced the shoes had come off and assorted clatter heralded her upending the bag over the hall-stand to locate her beloved Rinku. Soft crooning to her adored stuffed bunny sounded in apology for hiding him under her books all day. He was misshapen and looked more like an amoeba, after years of being ruthlessly carried everywhere she went, stuffed in a pocket or scrunched into her waistband. His brown plush had faded to an indeterminate grayish-pink.

         I had attempted to replace him with a newer stuffed toy years back, only to find my maid-servant brandishing the usurper and stammering gratitude to me for my generous gift to her son .

         I was now resigned to giving him his weekly bath and monthly overhauling for burst seams and disintegrating body parts. He had had a ear replacement surgery last month and two complete stuffing renewals. The effort was worth it; if only to see Nanni curled up asleep, with her cheek snuggled against Rinku’s floppy ears. You see,I could leave her in the dark only if Rinku was there to ward off the shadows that fluttered curtains before striking at unwarychildren.

         Nanni came into the kitchen with Rinku riding in her pocket. He was bolder and more open to direct contact at home; in school he was a recluse, averse to the slightest hint of his presence. Or so Nanni said. It resolved the puzzle of why he rode at the bottom of her bag anyway.

         Her dress sagged at the neckline from his weight, also from the fact that her back buttons were undone.

         “Mamma,” she made the word into a plea, as she presented her back to me. I did up her buttons automatically, it was almost a ritual with us. She could struggle and do it herself; or she could come to me and get it done with the bonus of a tickle of the neck or kiss on the cheek.

         Today she got a loving pat on her bottom and a push towards the table upon which reposed her ‘after-school snack’. It was cheese and tomato sandwich today, whole-wheat with crust.

         “Mamma, Rinku says he can’t chew the crust.”

         I knew it was coming. She liked to have the crusts trimmed off, whole-wheat having a particularly tough crust. Having a most belligerent disposition for a stuffed rabbit; Rinku was usually the instigator of all such revolts.

         I displayed the way I had cut the bread into a central diamond and four corner triangles, dotting each piece with a tomato-sliver smile and two boiled pea eyes. It now seemed Rinku would condescend to partake of ‘smile-sandwiches’.

         “Mamma,” was the confident command, “Rinku wants to have lemonade with the sandwich”

         “Why doesn’t he have milk, it is all ready to pour, in the blue jug.”

         A pained look preceded a gusty sigh. She told me in slow cadence, intelligible even to those of poor comprehension, “you know he is allergic to chocolate milk.”

          Too bad I’d forgotten his convenient allergies. He wasn’t allergic to chocolate when it came in the form of candy, or even milk if was in the form of ice-cream. It baffled his physicians, but he was allergic only to the forms she detested.

         “We don’t have lemons, dear”. An inspired counter-move on my part, knowing she could not see the three fat lemons I had stored in the butter compartment of our fridge.

         I underestimated Rinku’s guile; he whispered the solution into her ear, I’m sure.

         “I’ll just run across to Sabita Auntie’s house and ‘borrow’ some lemons.

         I pretended to ‘remember’ that I had lemons at home and tried to avoid the accusing gaze of Rinku’s beady black eyes. I should have given him buttons for eyes when his last visit to the washing machine cost him a bead.

         As a last ditch effort to save myself some sticky time with the squeezer I tried to lay down the law.

         “If Rinku wants something special, you will have to make it for him. It is not fair for him to expect this kind of ‘hotel’ service.”

         Of course Rinku’s ‘mother’ was far more indulgent than I was and she hopped up from the little footstool and declared herself ready to pamper him.

         “Mamma,” queried she, suddenly a little girl again; “will you show me what to do?”

         My heart was not hardened enough to withstand two large brown eyes that shone with so much faith in my generosity. I heard an encouraging sound escape my lips even as I busied myself getting out the correct utensils. I halved the lemons for her because Rinku was afraid she might cut herself.

         I told her it was my rule that nobody but I was ever to touch my knives, more to prevent experimentation in my absence than from any desire to validate Rinku’s concerns.

         I revealed to her my ‘secret’ recipe: In a large bowl, first add one and a half teaspoons sugar and a pinch of salt per glass. Next add the juice of one half squeezed lemon per glass and let it stand. Then measure 250 ml of cold water for each person - the thin blue tumbler there is just that much - and add and stir gently. Dip a small cup and pour the juice back into the bowl over and over. Fill into tall glasses and add a sprig of mint in each.

         It now seemed that Rinku was getting a little anxious about my presence during Nanni’s debut as a cook. He wasn’t twitching his whiskers or anything and certainly his eyes were supremely uninterested to my untutored gaze. She of course, was more attuned to every nuance of his expressions and she insisted upon being alone to make the lemonade.

         I went out into the little balcony where we sometimes had breakfast and sat in one of the cane chairs, with my back to the kitchen. This compromise was acceptable to Rinku and I heard the clink of glasses and the clatter of the lid of the sugar jar on the counter-top. There was loud murmuring as the sugar was measured, probably as a dispute over the count of spoons of sugar. I was pretty sure the chef was heavy-handed with the sugar.

         There was an occasional giggle but not much other sound; I could picture Nanni concentrating over the task with face flushed with enthusiasm. Rinku was probably lolling back against the sugar jar and supervising.

         The clank of the spoon against the bowl was quickly followed by a wail of despair, “it is too sweet!”

         I stifled my desire to rush in and sweep her into my arms and instead just instructed her to add another half tumbler of water and stir well.

         The wailing cry died off, but after much industrious repair the verdict was that it was still too sweet.

         “It is OK darling; just try adding a pinch of salt.”

         A couple of gulps and a sniffle preceded the verdict that something was still not quite right but that Rinku would be insulted if she had any ‘real’ help.

         I was stumped for a little while; I was unable to resolve the problem without being able to see or taste. An inspired guess made me ask “how much juice of lemon did you add?”

         Eureka! A very small voice declared the answer was – none. She ran dejected into my arms. Maybe it was Rinku who started it, but soon she burst out laughing and when her paroxysms of laughter subsided she lifted a face streaming with laughter tears.

         “Mummy I just made un-lemonade”.

         That’s what we always drank to toast any occasion thereafter, and Rinku had it as his last wish before he was retired to the back of the cupboard. He sits there patiently still, a solemn reminder of bygone days, waiting for some other little girl to want un-lemonade and invite him to the party.

         I smiled in satisfied reminiscence, he was a great influence on Nanni. Perhaps part of the credit for her success today should go to him? Behind every well brought up little girl is a plush rabbit.


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