Letter from Kiran Manral to her mother
I have a confession to make. I’ve turned into you. The realisation dawned upon me, as most realisations do, not in a calm, let’s get this thing done with manner, but the rather unpleasant manner that sledgehammers have when they connect with cranium. Bang. And followed by splintering realisation.
It happened the other evening when the offspring, or the apple of your rather jaundiced grandmotherly eye, was raising the usual dead in his efforts to amuse himself around the house, leading to clear and present danger for the unwary occupants of the premises. “YOU STOP THAT RIGHT NOW!” I thundered, with all caps and exclamation mark of course, and added, “Or else,” for good measure, leaving it at that. Then it struck me, like a sudden squeezing of my intestines with a cold clammy hand. Your voice had become my voice. But my offspring, unlike the me of yore, has no fear of the implicit threat in the “Or else…” and looked back with barely a flicker of fear. “Or else…wot?” he asked.
Read the rest here