Massive wheels of rubber screeched to a halt. Falling over the crowd that got off and onto the bus, I prayed for a seat. Windowed ones were the least of my concerns. I was on a mission. I was going to learn French. In the presence of blinking red lights, the traffic havaldars had been doing a shoddy job of letting traffic flow comfortably. I knew there would be enough hiccups for me to add at least a few words of la langue Française into my existing list. An empty seat invited me to sit behind a young lady with a tiny baby. Was it a boy? Was it a girl? Hey, why did that matter to me? Unidentifiable Babies were the least of my concerns. I was on a mission. I was going to learn French. Settling down, I offered Baby a smile. Baby looked right through me. I suppose women on French missions didn't make for very good Baby entertainment. Out came my blue book. I began learning the French version of handkerchiefs, hats, walls and cats. I had heard that French was a neat language. And that it would be even neater if the French didn't insist on saying the time in that long-winded way. And their numbers too. Baby was intrigued. Maybe French missions were fascinating after all. Baby was falling all over Maman's shoulder in an attempt to tear the blue book out of my hands. Baby was trying to grab my attention. I looked right through Baby. Baby didn't know French. Baby was of no use to me. I suppose I upset Baby. Baby began to bawl. Goodness. I was trying desperately to understand why a lady was called femme but when pronouncing it, she sounded more like a farm. Was it because French women wear a lot of straw hats? But actually, they don't. So then..? Shut up silly mind. And shut up silly Baby. "A-le-le-le-le-le! Mela tona betaaa! Mela pyaalaa betaaa," Maman trilled, shaking Baby high above her head, sending Baby's podgy arms and legs flailing vigorously in four different directions. Looking down at smiley Maman trying so hard to soothe it, Baby decided to reward her efforts. Baby smiled. Faintly. Thank Dieu. Maman was thrilled. She promptly patted Baby onto her shoulder. The smile was squashed out when Baby's chubby chin landed in a roly-poly mass on her shoulder. Baby's bald head was given a motherly thump. No obliging smiles this time. Baby just shut his (as I discovered thanks to Maman's lullaby) eyes and nodded himself to sleep. Un Placher is floor. Un Plafond is ceiling. Plancher. Plafond. Plancher. Plafond. Okay, so this was easy. It had a kind of rhythm to it. The bus hit a massive speed breaker. Humanity rose two inches above their seats. Sleeping Babies woke up. And howled their wee bald heads off. While humanity settled down in a matter of seconds, bawling Babies did not. "Awww! Mela laajaa betaaa ko tot lagaa! Koi baat nahi. To jaa betaaa. To jaa sonaa!" I glanced over my glasses at Baby. Tears streamed down his chubby cheeks. It would take Gabbar Singh to shut him up this time. Gabbar didn't get on. But a fellow passenger's threatening glare did the trick. The tears miraculously vanished. But the whimpering continued. I shut my eyes and did the French memory test. Un Plancher is ceiling. Un Plafond is floor. Or is it the other way around? Damn! My French must have flown out of my brain with the reactive impact of going over that speed breaker. I began again... This was going to take a lifetime. And if Babies had their way, it would take several lifetimes. Maman decided that Baby was hungry. Baby needed to be fed. Right now. Amidst speed breakers and potholes. Whimpering Babies are the last thing a Maman's heart can handle. Out came the Cerelac. And the water. And the spoon. Water is eau. A spoon is une cuillère. And I don't think the French have heard of Cerelac. The cleaning of a chubby face and a few more thumps on the bald head. A pothole. A tiny baby burp. And a trickle of Cerelac onto a relatively newish-looking Maman's blouse. Maman was visibly upset. Well, what do you expect chère Maman? If I had someone force Cerelac down my gullet while I was being tossed around in the valleys and peaks of Bombay roads, I'd throw up too. Be grateful. Your blouse got only a trickle from this fed up Baby. Blouse. That was blouse itself. Hmm. This was getting interesting. Twenty minutes of more la langue Française. By regular Baby Standards, Baby had been quiet for too long now. Baby seemed to receive my telepathic vibes. Baby decided to break all records. Baby began bawling. At Baby's highest possible pitch. I furiously turned French pages. I needed to get Baby to shut up. Shutup...shutup...shutup...where the hell was that translation? Ah ha! Tait-toi, you exasperating Baby. No? Okay, I'll show you the respect you so demand. Taisez-vous, s'il vous plait, I pleaded. Baby looked at me with pooled black eyes. I could tell from the split second silent break, the breather and the upturned Baby mouth, that the next cry was going to bring the double-decker's roof in. I was right. Baby hollered. The bus quaked. I quaked. Everybody quaked. Cet abominable Baby. I wanted to spank it. Visions of my bus stop beyond the signal compelled me to change my mind. Blue books were hastily stuffed away. One last look at pooled Baby and I stumbled to the quaking door. A few seconds later, Baby bawls disappeared for good in a rising cloud of dust. Hallelujah. When the mood moves her, Bhavna Giani is capable of Greek too. Illustration: Dominic Xavier Tell us what you think of this diary
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