It was time to travel again. This time to Coorg, a lovely plantation town, called Scotland of India. So, off we were!

These days we struggle to take charge of the radio while in the car. The kids enjoy contemporary numbers while we prefer the golden oldies, like all old people do. We try to explain to them the beauty of lyricism in a song that goes ‘The moon seems to have lost its way in the clouds just like I seem to be lost in your thoughts’ compared to lyrics of their choice of songs that go ‘Mother’s eye-of-the-apple is a spoilt brat’. But, as you rightly guessed, a willful apple-of-mother’s-eye has lot more force than a lost moon.

The situation is further complicated by the fact that the moment a song starts, one of them is quick to announce: ‘This is my song’ or ‘Izzh my’ as the case may be.

Whoever announces first obtains some sort of patent to that song. The terms of this patent are:-

1. The other person must not display any kind of affinity to the song by singing along, tapping fingers, dancing, to that song.

2. Any suspicious movement that can be construed as falling under (1) by the party who has obtained the patent, will be met with severe consequences.

3. The aforementioned severe consequences will be hitting, pulling hair (if the guilty party has hair on the head at that point in time), punching, and other similar punitive measures.

We, as responsible parents stop digging our noses and yawning when such a situation arises, and try to explain to them that they song can be co-owned. We try to explain to them that both can enjoy the song, without breaking into a fist-fight. But, we soon give up and go back to digging our noses.

What I really worry about is: ‘When will they outgrow this? Or will they?’

My mind drifts to an imaginary scene, 25 years from now, where Prithvi is proposing to a pretty girl. They go to this elegant restaurant where a band is plays somnolent jazz numbers (which make me yawn and dig my nose, but then, we are not talking about me), and the menu card can be read only by a D.Litt and M.Phar.Con in French.
So, they are there, and amidst the tinkling of glasses and happy laughter, the band announces they’d play a special song.

Just as they start, pretty girl says ‘Isn’t that a lovely song? We can make that ‘our song’!’

Prithvi face clouds with anger as he says, ‘No, its my song’.

Pretty girl does not note the changing color of the face because elegant restaurant is very dimly lit. She starts humming along with the song.

‘This is it!’, Prithvi decides. He pulls the table cloth off the table, jumps on it, and pulls her hair, ‘Its my song, its my song.’ He punches and pummels her, dragging her by the torn edges of her red dress, till security is called in.

Phew ! It’s a scary thought. Back in the car, the song has changed now. The new one is about a gentleman called Pappu who can’t dance <bad word>.

We settle back to digging our noses as another fight begins.

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