My daughter who is all of eleven years, and I have had a talk. She tells me that she has written an article, which she is going to post to the Indian Express. What's more, she is sure to see her face splashed all over her story, and is confidently waiting for the pres people.She now says ``Mom, do you read that article on `beautiful Homes' in our paper? How come, no one has been to our house - our home is beautiful too.'' She sounded sad and wistful. I was sorry for her but before I could say something she perked up with the buoyancy of a child. ``18 feet high walls in all the rooms with windows and ventilators. Why Mom - even our bathroom has 3 windows and ventilators, lovely cream walls, beautiful curtains you brought from the States. So much sun and fresh air too.'' I was quietly listening to her, my concentration was all gone. ``Why don't you write mamma, like Shobha De? She writes about every day life and brings Arundhati too into the picture,'' she appealed to me.``Child, I am not Shobha De and you are not Arundhati. I am happy in my blessed anonymity. Go back to your lessons and leave me in peace.'' ``I have even given an ethnic touch to our home - whatever that means. That old earthen pot you stored in the attic, is now an example of my abstract art. Red, green, blue and yellow paint splashed on the pot look like birds, trees, flowers, lakes and meadows - Wow mama!,'' she said.Just to humour her, I asked, ``and what is the title of your article?'' She looked radiant, happy, lost in a fantasy of being famous one day, she said, ``Owner's pride, neighbour's envy.''
