The doorbell rang. I looked up at the wall clock which showed its hands at 9.30am. She was punctual, as always.
I opened the door, a bright smile adorning my face. There she stood, held by her attendant, as fresh as a white lily, asking me hesitantly, if she could come in.
“Of course!” I said, as I reached out gently to lead her inside.
As was the norm every day, I allowed her to play unattended, keeping a watch now and then on her whereabouts. Her favourite place was my kitchen where she would soon make herself comfortable, playing with my saucepans and pots, throwing them aside if she did not like any.
She was young and innocent, but she was full of mischief. The more energetic she got, the livelier, bubblier and out of control she would become. Moreover, she was a great attention seeker, throwing terrible tantrums if you were not around. Rising up gently and stealthily from her place in the kitchen, she would suddenly be all over the place, searching desperately for you.
But, despite her temper tantrums, I really loved her. Sometimes, I carried her around the house along with my cup of tea while I completed my pending chores. Her soft, warm and gentle touch often helped soothe my frayed nerves. Just the thought of her coming home every morning was enough to lift my spirits and brighten my day.
Although I knew of her temper tantrums and peculiar traits, I couldn’t always be around to keep a watch on her. Sometimes, my husband would be tasked to keep her company. At such times, I realized, she was on her very best behaviour. Like all little children, this one also was really attracted to my husband. Was it because he was so gentle while handling her and had all the patience to play with her unlike me, who very often would leave her to play by herself? With him, she would smile coyly, rising up once in a while to peep over his shoulder, trying to catch my eye. And he, very tenderly, would prompt her back to her play with pots and pans.
Today is one of those days when he’s not around to help and I have the onerous task of taking care of this delightful, mischievous little brat. I settle her down with her pots and pans and get back to what I’d been doing earlier.
A creepy silence soon envelops the house.
“Whatever is she up to?” I wonder, as I rush to check.
I gasp in disbelief as I stare at the horror before me. Like a wounded wild creature, she’s fuming and frothing as she spreads her uncontrollable tantrums all across my kitchen floor.
“Oh no! There she goes again!” I wail in exasperation.
Then very resignedly, I pick up a mop while trying to salvage the remains of my freshly delivered one litre, pure, fresh, divinely fragrant and creamy cow’s milk. My Angel in Disguise.
Maybe I should invest in a milk boiler, just like my smart young neighbour!