I don’t know Spanish, patti

Siddarth, at times, comes up a baffling one-liner that leaves you. . .well, baffled at what he could have meant by what he said. It happened this way. On the day he went for story-time at Barnes & Nobel we got him a copy of Stuart Little, at the discounted price of $7.99 (I’ve stopped converting such things into rupees, on doctor’s advice).

Back home I read out, in bed for his afternoon nap, this story about Stuart, the mouse, confronting this owl in residence at the county library. Later, at tea-time, my wife, in the mistaken belief that conversation would hasten Siddarth to drink up his Ovaltine, made small-talk.

Did thatha read out a story, Siddarth? He nodded, perfunctorily.

Isn’t it a good book? Another nod, in response.

Did you like the story? Siddarth spoke up, “I don’t know Spanish, patti”.

“The book is in English, though, Siddarth”. My wife observed, as if our young friend didn’t know. She doesn’t know, at times, when to switch topic or simply, switch off.

A mute witness to the proceedings, I wondered if what I read sounded Spanish to Siddarth. Or was the mouse and owl story Greek to him? For an owl-and-mouse story set in a library, there was so much happening in the story that was probably beyond Siddarth’s grasp. He heard out the entire story, with thumb stuck firmly in his mouth, in uncharacteristic silence. The only question he raised during my reading was - “in what car Stuart go (to the library)?”

The chap, probably, slept through my reading, presumably, dreaming of his pow-pow earlier in the day with our Mexican domestic help, Yessica, who speaks Spanish.