You’d never believe me if I told you I was mildly telepathic, but it’s true and I can prove it. For as long as I can remember I would begin humming a song and then someone would turn a TV or the radio on and that very song would play on it. I would idly walk into the living room, not sure what I came here for, and then the phone would ring and I would answer it within half a ring. In the days of yore when our phones did not flash the name or number of the person calling, I would have a hunch whose call it was. When people began conversations with me, I cut to the chase and gave them the answer or solution they were looking for. “I was just about to ask you that, how did you know that?” was a line I heard very often.
Call this sixth sense?
I dreaded it, however. I feared it. While some people would have found a way to channelise this innate power, I felt overwhelmed. I began to sense bad news more than the good. I knew when the professor would spring a surprise test on us in class. There were also countless times I would wake up in the morning with a premonition of an incomplete project at work or a looming deadline which I had forgotten all about.
So what did I do about these awaiting horrors? No, I did not take those as an alarm bell and begin working on them. I chose to challenge them and see what would happen if I did not heed the warning signs. Smart eh?
Maybe not! Alas, it was harakiri.
Very soon.. my magical quality began to give up on me. I no longer heard rhythms in the airwaves. I made an utter fool of myself trying to show off to people around me when I proclaimed, at the doorbell’s ring, that so and so was here.
My special skill was cross with me for the gift it was bestowing on me. And so it stopped talking to me.
I missed it. I missed knowing what was about to happen. And especially so in situations where life and fate itself were tested. I cowered under stressful situations and dreaded such moments in life.
Until one day… when I realised that it was still there, somewhere around me.
Last Thursday evening, I was folding the laundry while T meandered around me. Suddenly he came up to me and said in a joking manner, “Who’s going to ring the bell now Tara?”
I glanced at the clock. Only 630 in the evening, daddy was still at work.
“Daddy!!!” he chimed in, the happiness in his voice very visible.
Not paying enough attention to what he said, I went inside to stow away the laundry in the wardrobe.
Before I could set foot into the bedroom, “Ding-Dong” went the bell. No, it couldn’t be. No vendors or courier boys came to the house at this hour.
I poked my eye into the peephole at the main door. Sure enough, there was daddy, bent over, undoing his shoes and almost reaching to hit the doorbell a second time.
Well finally here was proof that my son had inherited at least something from me.