Read to me

The brat is only now noticing that Mamma and Pappa spend most of their time with their respective pug and huge noses buried deep in books. Of different genres of course. Pappa's predeliction being more towards the Shiv Kheras and Warren Buffets and Iacoccas and such like that Mamma runs away shrieking from and would never be able to get past chapter one even if Pappa held a gun to her head and warned her she would never be able to go shopping with his add on credit card ever again. Mamma reads stuff that ranges the gamut from the mushy type numbers with musclebound hero and vapid heroine melting furiously in each other's arms and deciding to live happily ever after before the stretchmarks and the PPD strike to the laugh a second ones authored by geniuses like P G Wodehouse and his ilk whom Mamma genuflects to and would die happy if buried under to the esoteric and wondrous magic realism of Rushdie and Marquez. Why this discourse on books and reading you might ask?
Reading is something new to Pappa. He last volutarily read anything thicker than a newspaper when he was in studying mode a couple of decades ago. But a couple of months ago, some rejuvenation and relook at life paths happened. In fact, a few months ago you needed to pull Pappa like a reluctant overworked bull to a heifer on heat if you needed him to get his nose into a book. Probably papering the cover with a picture of Pamela Anderson would have then worked as better incentive. The change occured a few months ago when Pappa got into book buying overdrive, thanks to rethinking of life and strategy and wanting to know meaning and purpose to life and such tripe and now is almost as bad as Mamma. Thankfully, they have their own separate books to pore over so no infighting happens. And separate reading spaces too.
As it happens, Mamma has been reading furiously for the past few days. In the car, while she travels to pick up brat, while waiting outside his tuition class, when the brat is playing in the lobby (given current rain situation in the city, the park is a pond where the brat could probably go for swimming practice) and she is needed around to keep eagle eye on him and prevent him from sending more docile children back home squealing in rage and hurt.
The brat notices it. It is nothing new to him. Mamma even laughs and snorts occasionally if reading them chuckleinducers. Of course some books have her guffawing violently with tears streaming down her face, which gets him all panicky and gets Pappa to ask her to zip it and not disturb him.
Then last night, when he is playing for his last half an hour with his squad of Power Rangers assembled into battle formations against his Superhero action figures, he notices again, the father sprawled on the sofa in the room, devouring Thinking Big. And Mamma sprawled across the bed struggling valiantly to get through The Alchemist without giving up altogether and running manically to the welcoming arms of her Comedy Omnibus. And he goes on his ownsome to his shelf, opens the doors. Pulls out a selection of random books and comes sprawls next to Mamma on the bed. Cupping his face in his hands. Turning pages with a furrowed brow.
"Dont disthurb me. I is reading. I very busy."
He looks with one eye at both parents to check if they've got and comprehended his message of busy ness.
"I is reading book."
Mamma smiles indulgently. Pappa snorts. Brat furrows and knits eyebrows and reads through book detailing the escapades of Roary the racing car who takes a short cut to win a race after being forced off the track by Flash the rabbit. His current favourite book for no other obvious reason other than the fact that twas gifted to him by his comrade in mischief, Rohini's little dynamite, Ayaan. He read through it twice, making up his own story as he went through, not letting Mamma read the printed words to him like she normally does. And brought in Ben 10s and Spidermen into the narrative as well.
Then he read through a couple of the other books from his library. Read through is an euphemistic phrase. He scanned the pictures on each page and made up a story for each that was so wonderful and original and inventive that Mamma had half a mind to take notes and start penning a series of children's books.
Then he kept them all aside. And picked up one of Mamma's books lying around randomly.
"Mamma," he demanded petulantly, "Read Karo. Big people ke book se. Loudly. Dont make mistakes."
Mamma has read to the brat before. Often. But always from the brat's stock of books. This was different. This was a book with fine print and no pictures. And only the rhythms and cadences of mamma's reading to give him a clue as the where the narrative was heading.
And so mamma did. Read out the story of Jeeves and his languid master to the brat who listened attentively for a full three pages, until he yawned big and wide and snoozed right off to Dreamland. It must have been High Latin read in mamma's sinusoid frog voice to him.
If Mamma could turn cartwheels without dislodging a couple of floor tiles she would have. She contented herself with a soft whoop of joy. Finally, the perfect nightcap for a hyperactive, difficult to wind down brat, something that she enjoys reading too. Something tells her though, that Pelham Wodehouse would perhaps not be too flattered at the thought of his works being used as a nightcap.