The Intervention

The Intervention

“Oh, for God’s sake! Stop fighting. I am sick and tired of your constant quarrels. Isha! go to your room. Ashi! go to my room. Both of you sit separately,” I shouted. 

The twins hung their head and shuffled off to the respective rooms. Just as Ashi was about to enter my bedroom she turned around wanting to say something. But I beat her to the punch. “Nah! Do not open your mouth,” I said shaking my head. With mutinous eyes, she went and sat on my bed. 

‘Finally, some peace of mind.’ 

But I knew from experience it would not last long. I finished penning down my poem and then went straight to the kitchen to whip up some lunch. Something the girls liked; I was feeling a little guilty for having shouted at them, though of course, it was their fault. 

Fifteen minutes into cooking I heard the sound of laughter. I smiled, ‘Hmmm… not bad, that lasted for one hour.’

I tiptoed to my room and saw the two of them with their heads together. The doll which had been the object of dissension was now being shared. The five-year-olds were pretend-playing pre-school. Ashi was teaching the doll her favourite nursery rhyme, while Isha acted as the second student, drawing flowers on a paper. They looked so cute; faces scrunched up in concentration at the task at hand. Isha joined Ashi in recitation and both giggled as ‘Incy Wincy’ came down the water spout.  

“Now it’s my turn to be the teacher,” Isha said.

“No! you are not a good teacher.”

“Why? The doll likes my class.”

“NO! She does not.”

The decibel rose, I sighed and went back to the kitchen. I had ten minutes before intervention would be required. AGAIN.

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Shweta Singh
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