Absolute Trust

He is very restless, scampering here and there, watching TV for a minute, then chasing the soft ball and kicking it under the sofa, running into legs and squealing his appreciation as he is picked up and hoisted high above so he can touch the wind chimes.

Very keen and observant, he picks up the faintest rumble of his father’s bike as it enters the narrow lane. He bounds down the length of the living room, all excited at the prospect of playing rough and tumble with his Appa-whom-he-loves-the-most. He hurtles down with the energy of a small meteor; Appa-whom-he-loves-the-most balances the bike with his right foot on the steps that lead into the house.

It’s an old house. The steps are rather high and steep. The little one cannot climb down without assistance, and sometimes when we sit down together on the steps to watch The Mynah, The Crow and The Jackfruit, his tiny feet dangles half-way between the first concrete plane and the next.

As he reaches the very edge, this confident young man, all of two years, takes an unhesitating leap into his father’s outstretched arms. He jumps, without a shadow of doubt in his mind, supremely confident that Appa-whom-he-loves-the-most will catch him and he will come to no harm.

Now, that is what I call absolute trust.