Once every year, a bout of puffed-out gusts of air hit us as our eleven year old tries to ask the question, “why can’t I whistle?” 

This year too, the attempt of turning her oral muscles into a finely tuned instrument kept us busy through out the weekend. On Friday night, the sounds were just that, of air escaping her mouth. Come Saturday, the effort started taking shape. Tiny wisps of air escaped as musical notes amidst the hurricane followed by great hurrays and jumping in air. By Sunday, the Great Whistler had arrived. There was now a sudden bearing in her gait, a sort of calm that comes with great power. “Papa, my whistle is now better than yours,” sagely words greeted me as she followed me everywhere around the house, in the elevator, even as I slogged over her school bag to the school bus, her newfound whistle pecking a hole in my ear!