I always thought Pappa was the bravest person in the world. He used to chase insects out for me when I was young — I have a phobia of them — so for the longest time, I believed he wasn't afraid of anything.
Until a mouse came along and ruined the whole myth.
One summer evening, at #27, we sat with the front and back doors open for cross ventilation, because apparently we were inviting trouble in for tea. A mouse wandered in — a teeny tiny one, the kind that could fit in a teaspoon. Before any of us had even properly clocked what it was, Pappa was airborne. Up on the dining table. Calling out for the rest of us to join him on the furniture, like we were evacuating a sinking ship.
What?
This was the man who fearlessly evicted bugs on my behalf. And here he was, marooned on a four-seater dining table because of something smaller than his own thumb.
Enter my mother. Out of nowhere, she tucked her saree up like she meant business, grabbed a broom and a dust tray, and went to war. She rearranged furniture with the energy of someone clearing a battlefield, while Pappa watched from his perch, utterly useless. The mouse, sensibly terrified of her and not even slightly of him, bolted out the back door. We slammed it shut before Pappa dared get down.
Etched in my memory forever.
