As I lay my head on the pillow, I couldn’t help but feel remorse over what had happened earlier that night. It’s amazing how the tighter I close my eyes, the faster those images rushed through my thoughts. The laughter. The pleading. Those innocent eyes.

Oh Isaac.

Raja’s 3 years old nephew, Isaac, loves slaving victims into carrying him almost anywhere on their backs. Like human mules. I always hesitate when he chooses me to be his mode of transportation. Because really, I think rules should be sternly set when a human being is forced into becoming an animal against their will. But everytime, EVERY single time, he cheats by throwing those cute innocent, pleading eyes my way. Smacking me right in the face.

I have no choice but to say yes. Yes Isaac, I will be an animal for you. Everytime.

So I lifted him up with my mighty huge biceps (I kid you not) and placed him on my back. As I quickly made my way down the stairs, I could feel his grip tightening around my neck and his scrawny legs kicking even harder, chuckling as I ran faster down the steps. The shrieking got even louder when we approached the dining area.

And that’s when it happened. Oh Isaac.

It happened so fast. He was squirming like a worm, like a worm high on 74 bars of chocolate, and I was frantically trying to juggle him and the crap-load of things on my right hand. I remember dropping the stuff and trying to gather all the acrobatic energy I had left in me to balance him. I remember twisting myself in a weird way, lowering myself closer to the floor and the look on the faces of the people around me as I can only imagine what would’ve looked like I was hip-hoping, waving goodbye, and flagging down a plane, simultaneously.

The next thing I heard was a loud thump, followed by crying. Painful, unimaginable wailing. And tears streaming like waterfall. Oh my God. Oh my God. I dropped him. I dropped Isaac. Yes people. I DROPPED A CHILD. I’m the worst person in the world.

I’m not even sure whether he fell on his head or his back. But I recall picking him up from the hard floor and hugging him as hard as I could, kissing him again and again, hoping that each kiss would make the pain go away or turn around time and grow me bigger biceps. Really at this point anything would’ve been great. But it didn’t. Fact is, I dropped a child. I dropped a family member.

Grieving with guilt, I spent the rest of the night apologizing to Isaac’s mum. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I broke your child. He’ll never be the same again. But she was totally cool and kept assuring me that it was alright. Kids fall. All the time. Really? Really? Do they fall backwards all the time?? On their heads?? This people, is reason 185 why I should be banned from having kids. Ever.

I thought I would never be able to forgive myself. That was until the following day, when something far even worse happened to Armand, Raja’s other nephew. Only this time I didn’t do it. I swear. Apparently, Armand was taking a walk with Raja when he fell down a flights of stairs. ON HIS FACE. I’m telling you, the amount of damage that Raja and I can commit to is shockingly scary. But it’s official, base on severity of injury, I’m pretty sure I make a better parent. So, Yeay!

Even after two weeks’ worth of separation, she had still remembered me. A vivid recollection of our duo fusion dance rendition and flawless lip syncing moment was still fresh in her mind. Only this time, she wanted the real deal.

She wanted to sing, and she wanted me to take turns singing with her. Like seriously sing. As in to actually vocalize melodious tones–gods knows how– from our mouths, without cheating. So no trusty radio or real music to back us up. And I had no say in it. No negotiations. No bargaining. No chickening out. To sing I must and to sing I shall.

Clearly, I was doomed.

Without delaying, she quickly positioned herself in front of the telly, in front of David Letterman nonetheless. Clutching her fake microphone (which by the way was a cardboard cylinder taken from the aluminum foil that was previously used to whack Jothy with), she mumbled some words from the song ‘Paparazzi’ by Lady Gaga. It was more of a humming. Almost disappearing.

But then her voice started clearing up and became immoderately louder upon reaching the chorus bit. I’m assuming that’s the only part that she actually knows. She continued singing, wailing, I’m your biggest fan…I’ll follow you until you love me…Papa…Paparazzi…Baby there’s no other superstar…You know that I’ll be your…Papa…Paparazzi.

In the midst of singing those words, she’ll point the fake microphone towards me once in a while, signaling whenever it was my cue to cut in. So I sang my tone deaf heart out. Papa…Paparazzi. And every time I’d jumped in, the corner of her lips would curve upwards. That was good news. Her smile was a positive indication of her approval towards my singing. I was liberated.

Nevertheless, the song felt like it lasted forever because she re-sang the song again and again and again, countless of times. I, by the way, felt like my throat was going to dig its way out and strangle Tara if I had to sing another Papa…Paparazzi.

I can’t remember how but I had managed to divert her Red-Bull-I-wanna-be-a-superstar driven attention towards Raja. It was totally right down his alley. After all, he used to sing for his band and even made an album, so he was way over qualified for this job.

Tara: Uncle Raja, please sing for me.

Raja: I’m your biggest fan…I’ll follow you until you love me…Papa…Paparazzi…Baby there’s no other superstar…You know that I’ll be your…Papa…Paparazzi...

Tara: *Burst out into laughter* Oh my god, why your voice is like so lousy? I’ll never bring you to any of my concerts.

Raja: *Speechless*

Tara: *Continues laughing and adding salt into injury* Oh my god, your voice is like a mouse you know…cheee cheee cheee (trying to impersonate a mouse squeaking).

In all fairness, Raja was singing in a carefree, comical, and high-pitched squeaking manner for the fun of it. Even so, I strongly believe with no doubt in my mind that Tara has great judgment when it comes to music. Which is incontestably why she favored my singing compared to Raja. Great talent is so rare these days. Ahhh…I [heart] you groupie.

On another note, apart from a beating baton and a prop microphone, the cardboard cylinder appeared to have a couple of other uses, such as a Telescope.

And a Play-Doh pastry roller.

Impressive. It’s almost as sophisticated and multipurpose as my favorite mortar and pestle.

For those of you with no kids or nieces or nephews of your own or the subscription to channel 615 on Astro, that’s actually one of the songs from the soundtrack of Lilo and Stitch. And last night Raja and I were invited to Tara’s He Mele No Lilo dance performance. Of course, we graciously said yes.

Much to our surprise, Tara was well behaved most of the time. Sure there were some intentional pushing, poking, and friendly bumping during assembly. Some cheeky facial gestures slid in between here and there. But overall, she was, dare I say it, pretty decent.

Juliana said it may have something to do with exhaustion. The kids had been rehearsing their performances from 3pm up til that evening. Gee, those teachers sure are smart to tire those kids like that. Way before they get out of control. I think my mum took an easier alternative and fed us cough syrup. Something like that. Or something stronger.

Here’s a rundown of what happened throughout the night.

This was taken during assembly, after pushing the boy’s head in front of her. The girl she was staring wickedly at was next.

Tara’s Hawaiian moves. Her tube kept slipping down the whole night.

Dear God, I don’t ask for much. Please let me give birth to an equally –if not a more– adorable child. Amin. Much appreciated. (Just some random kid I wanted to kidnap).

After some Summer Lovin’, Jaiho, Pirate Joe, and many many other performances, the night finally came to an end. Strips of fluorescent confetti and sprinkles of gold dust were scattered everywhere.

I absolutely adore the next couple of pics. Credits to the uber fabulous Raja.

Have a wonderful weekend ya’ll!

That’s what my brother would remind me from time to time. Unfortunately, it’s true. Apart from my mum, the rest of us are useless when it comes to singing. Or playing any musical instruments. Or even dancing for that matter. We’re hopeless. Hopelessly hopeless. I blame my dad. And his genes.

We lack the rhythm, the beat, the harmony, basically the whole nine yards of music. It’s not like I’ve never tried to overcome those obstacles. Believe me, I did.

When I was 12, I joined the choir team. However, I was suspiciously placed in the back row. They said it was because I was taller than the other kids in the front row. But I knew better. The further away the listeners were, the harder it is for them to gag and die from the hysterical shrills, squealing out from my vocal chords. On an unrelated note, they made us wear these ridiculously awful pregnant-looking clothes that were made out from what could easily be mistaken by 1926’s curtain drapes. It was a nightmare.

By the time I was 13, I insisted on playing the organ. The first few weeks was a breeze. I received colorful stickers, star-shaped signatures, and generous compliments from my music teacher. I was a fast learner. Boy, was she impressed! She even called me a natural. But what she didn’t know was that I was actually more of a good memorizer. I memorized everything she ever thought me. EVERYTHING. I never knew what any of the musical notes meant. I just photographically memorized which keys to press as we moved from song to song. So when it came to the harder grades, my brain was about to explode. Eventually, I bailed out. Plus, the electronic organ I had at home was beaten to death. Literally. My brother treated it as a  substitute wall and practiced his tennis skills against it. It was fate.

The following year, I took up guitar lessons. It was dejavu all over again. I memorized the notes, the chords, the strumming, up to even the slightest coffee stain and molecule on the page I was playing. I was nowhere near at being a natural. Or even normal for that matter. The skin under my fingers were blistering and peeling from the pressure of grasping onto the guitar strings, desperately trying to make music. However, the noise that shrieked out from those guitar strings were horrific. Monstrous. Deadly. Once again, I bailed out. Also, my eldest brother gave my guitar away. It was fate.

Years passed by since any of my attempts to tango with music. That was until this year.

On the way back from celebrating Deepavali at my grandma’s house, I hitched a ride from my brother. As I pulled myself into the back seat, Tara was strapped securely beside me. With a single direct order from Tara, Mummy, give me music!, the radio was switched on. Music was pumping through the speakers and Tara was tapping her feet against the car seat to the music beat. Tapping to the song ‘Evacuate the Dance Floor’ by Cascada. I totally love that song. Very upbeat, very catchy.

This is it. This is my time to shine. I observed her for a while before quickly jumping in at the chorus. With my body moving to the tempo, my hands flying above my shoulders, my legs kicking exuberantly, and my mouth lip-syncing to Cascada’s angelic voice. Oh oh oh…Oh oh oh…evacuate the dance floor…Oh oh oh…Oh oh oh…I’m infected by the sound…Oh oh oh…Oh oh oh…Stop, this beat is killing me…Oh oh oh…Oh oh oh… Hey Mister DJ let the music take me underground . I kept changing my moves, mixing and matching what little dance steps I can recollect from music videos, and molding them into a spontaneous indoor choreography. From disco, to the robot dance, and back to the John Travolta pointing-to-the-stars move. I continued this horrendous shenanigan until the music ended. It was my best performance ever.

When I turned to Tara, she had a blank expression plastered on her face. In fact, she had that look the entire time I was mimicking Cascada wholeheartedly. Her eyes were staring intensely into mine in a confused manner, with her mouth fully opened, revealing her chipped tooth. Thoughts of Oh oh oh…Oh oh oh…Stop, you’re killing me — almost like the lyrics to the chorus– must have crowded her mind. I was patiently waiting for blood and brain fluid to ooze out of her eyes and ears simultaneously as she maintained her blur, unimpressed, straight face.

Then out of nowhere, she started clapping her hands frantically with her eyes sparkling wide opened and her smile stretching from ear to ear, screaming My turn! My turn! With my eyes sparkling even wider and my smile stretching two circles around my ears, I scooted even closer to my first groupie. We continued taking turns lip-syncing and creating mind-blowing dance moves all the way home.

Finally, a person who appreciates my art. My talent. My musical ability.

So what if she’s only 5. My fate is changing.

Tara: Hello Miss. May I serve you some food and drinks?

Jothy: Why yes. Yes you may.

Tara: This is for you. A big tissue and a nice drink.

Jothy: Ohh..thank you. What is this shiny thingy?

Tara: This thing?

Tara: Something to beat you with.

Jothy: Huh? Noooooo. Tara Don’t!

Tara: *Whack*

Jothy: ADAMMMMMM…..

Adam: TARA! How many times have I told you not to hit people?

Tara: Ok ok. Sorry sorry.

Tara: *Feeling remorse*

Tara: *Back to normal*

Jothy: Taraaaa..NO!

Tara: *Whack*

Jothy: ADAMMMMMM….

Tara: No no. I’m just reading this map.

Tara: See….

The end.

Are you still with me? Ok, good. So one day, Juliana (she’s my sis in law — and no she did not ’shi shi’ in this story) went to pick up Tara (my sometimes lovely niece) from the kindergarten. Usually the highlight of Juliana’s trip to the kindergarten would consists on listening to Tara’s classmates complaining about how Tara was a naughty naughty girl. “Tara licked me”. “Tara pushed me”. And believe it or not, there was even a “Tara threw a chair at me”. Seriously. But this time, it was Tara’s teacher who wanted to have a word with Juliana. Inside the classroom. Oohhhkay. What now?

Apparently, Tara had ’shi shi-ed’ (Yes, I had just used a passed tense for a made believe word. But it was in Reneepedia. I checked twice) on herself in class earlier that morning. On the way back, Juliana questioned Tara about the unfortunate incident. “What happened?”. “Did the teacher hit you?”. “Tell me”. Embarrassed, Tara refused to explain what had happened. She just kept quiet the whole way. Silence is not Tara’s thing, so it must have been serious.

Worried and restless, Juliana kept interrogating Tara. “What happened? What happened?”. Finally Tara broke down and told her side of the story. According to her, she wanted to pee but the kindergarten had CCTVs installed everywhere. Even in the toilet cubicles. Being the innocent girl that she clearly isn’t, she felt shy and terrified that the cameras would see her ’shi shi’. So she peed in her pants instead. She even swore that she wasn’t lying. She swore.

The next day, Juliana confronted the teacher again. Unsurprisingly, there were NO cameras in the toilet. No conspiracy on mild child pornography there. The truth was, Tara was being naughty as usual, so the teacher gently spanked her. I think that made her self-esteem go from hero to zero and down came the pee. End of story.

I don’t know whether Juliana should be worried about Tara’s avid lying problem or elated that Tara will most definitely score an A for creative writing. For a 5 year old, CCTV excuses are wayyyyy off the charts. She is so good. So so good.

I have this feeling that Tara won’t appreciate reading this particular blog post in years to come.