Just put you to sleep. You're lying down in an awkward fashion, one leg on top of the other, your hands spread, eagle like. Your little bald head is slanted to one angle, as if you're trying to hear the words that I'm typing now.

Your head looks so cute. Don't know what looks cuter, you with your hair, or you without. Till a month back, your locks were wavy, curly, straight and everything in between. I used to stroke them and try to put you to sleep.

Now you don't have any, thanks to the 'mundan'. Most Indian families shave the heads of children off, so the hair grows back nicely again. At least, that's what they believe. But you know your old father, sworn skeptic.

If the hair does grow back nicely after shaving, why do women shave their legs? Or their arm-pits? Do they want nice, bushy legs?

Perhaps you can answer that one when you're a little older Mimi.

I remember the day your mundan happened. Not too long back, I think. Perhaps a week. The weather was pleasant that day. I went out onto the verandah to have a smoke. A few droplets landed 'splosh' on my shirt. Within a few minutes, it was raining.

It's strange. Everytime there's an auspicious occasion in my life, it rains. I remember the day your thamma, Tuna-pishi and me were driving down to Noida. It was the day the parents would meet for the first time. It started raining cats and dogs and rabbits then too.

And every birthday of mine, it rains too.

Of course, there's another school of thought which says that God sends down rain whenever he's upset or angry. In which case, he was pretty darned upset about the fact that I was going to Noida to get married to your mother. And he was pretty damn upset about us shaving off your head too.

Ah well. No good sulking about lost hair now, I suppose.
Sleep well, the best thing that ever happened to me.

Dad