The Morning the Lake Said Hello

Once upon a soft grey morning in Lake Stevens, Washington, a little boy named Shaurya opened his eyes.

Shaurya was one year old. That means he had one whole candle, ten tiny toes, and a laugh that sounded like little bells.

"Good morning, Shaurya," said Mamma Pujayeeta, who could build bridges out of numbers.

"Good morning, buddy," said Baba Saikat, who could make machines hum.

Shaurya said, "Bah!" which in his language meant, "Let us go outside at once."

So they did. Mamma zipped his jacket. Baba found his little blue boots. And out they went into the cool green morning, where the air smelled like rain and cedar trees.

The first thing Shaurya met was a puddle.

The puddle was round and shiny, like a small silver plate lying on the sidewalk. Shaurya looked into it. Someone looked back. A boy with round cheeks and curious eyes.

"That is you," said Baba gently. "The water is holding your picture."

Shaurya patted the puddle. Splash! The picture wiggled away in rings. He patted it again. Splash, splash! It came back. Shaurya laughed and laughed. Water, he learned, is a very good friend who never says no to a game.

The second thing Shaurya met was a duck.

She waddled up from the lake with her feet slapping the wet grass, flap flap flap. She was brown and speckled, like buttered toast with cinnamon on it.

"Quack," said the duck.

"Bah!" said Shaurya.

"Quack quack," said the duck, which perhaps meant, "Nice boots."

Mamma crouched beside him. "Ducks have oil on their feathers, so the rain rolls right off. That is why she stays dry, even in Washington."

Shaurya touched his own jacket. Little drops sat on it like tiny beads. He was a bit like a duck this morning, and that seemed like a fine thing to be.

The third thing Shaurya met was a fern.

It grew beside the path with its leaves curled up at the tips, like small green question marks. Shaurya reached out one finger. The fern was soft. It was not scratchy at all.

"Gentle hands," said Baba. "Plants are alive, just like the duck. Just like you."

Shaurya stroked the fern very, very softly. One finger. Then he waved goodbye to it, because you should always say goodbye to a friend.

And then, at the edge of the lake, Shaurya met a frog.

The frog was small and green and sat on a wet stone as if the stone belonged to him.

"Ribbit," said the frog.

Shaurya stopped. He did not grab. He did not shout. He only looked, the way you look at something wonderful.

The frog blinked one eye. Then the other. Then he hopped — hop! — into the water and swam away with his long legs pushing like tiny oars.

"He is going home for breakfast," said Mamma. "Frogs eat bugs. You eat bananas. Everybody has their favourite."

Shaurya said, "Nana!" That one he knew.

The lake lay quiet and wide in front of them, holding the whole grey sky inside it. Far away, a mountain stood with clouds around its shoulders. A little wind came over the water and touched Shaurya's cheeks, cool as a spoon.

He held Mamma's finger with one hand and Baba's finger with the other, and the three of them stood there together, listening.

The water said hush. The trees said shhh. The duck said quack, far away now.

"Time for breakfast, little explorer," said Baba, lifting him high, so high that the whole lake tipped and sparkled.

At home there was warm daal, soft rice, and half a banana. Shaurya ate with his fingers and got some on his nose, which is the correct way when you are one.

And that night, when the sky turned the colour of blueberries, Mamma sang to him in the old Bengali way, low and slow, and Baba rubbed his back in small circles.

"You met a puddle, a duck, a fern, and a frog," Mamma whispered. "That is four new friends in one day."

Shaurya's eyes grew heavy. Somewhere outside, the frog was singing on his stone. Somewhere the duck was tucking her beak under her wing. Somewhere the lake held the moon the way it had held the sky.

Sleep well, Shaurya. Tomorrow the world will still be there, waiting to be met.

The end — for tonight.