The Children’s Game

The journey to their cousins' home had lasted long enough for eight-year-old Ira to ask whether they were close, accept the answer and ask again with different wording. Her younger brother, Kabir, had moved directly to asking whether the cousins could come to them instead.

Their mother, Padmini, sat with them as a passenger. Their father, Rohan, was driving and had been excused from all entertainment duties. The children were properly secured, snacks were packed away, and nobody was allowed to lean across another seat for a better view of anything.

“Let’s count red cars,” Padmini suggested.

Ira liked games with measurable outcomes. Kabir liked games in which his own number could be largest. This appeared promising until Padmini remembered that their car was red.

“One,” Kabir announced.

Ira looked out at the vehicles beside them. “Where?”

“This one.”

Padmini accepted it. Their car was, after all, a car, and the colour was not in dispute. Ira found another red car through her own window and announced two. Kabir examined the inside of the door and announced three.

“You already counted ours.”

“That was the outside.”

Padmini explained that they were counting vehicles, not views of vehicles. Kabir considered the rule and requested that it be added to the official record. Ira asked whether there was an official record. Padmini said it currently existed in her patience.

The traffic moved a little, then slowed again. Rohan remained focused on the road. Behind him, the game had developed an appeals process.

Ira spotted a red car a few places ahead. Kabir said it looked orange. Padmini ruled that uncertain colours could be skipped because this was an activity, not an examination. Both children found the absence of a definitive colour tribunal disappointing.

Then a red car they had already counted appeared beside them again as the queue changed position. Ira added it to the total. Kabir objected instantly. His respect for counting rules had improved as soon as they applied to somebody else.

Padmini reminded them that the same vehicle counted once. She also asked them to lower their voices so Rohan could concentrate. They did. For several pleasant seconds, the family travelled with the calm of people whose constitutional crisis had been resolved.

Then Kabir whispered, “Our car is still here.”

“Yes,” Padmini said.

“Very reliable.”

Ira laughed. The game shifted. Instead of arguing about the score, they began inventing awards for the vehicles they could see without moving out of their seats. Their own car won Best Attendance, Longest Running Participation and Most Available for Recounting.

Padmini rejected an award called Fastest because nobody needed to compete on the road. Ira suggested Most Patient instead. Kabir nominated their father, who did not need to answer because the passenger judging panel had reached a unanimous decision.

When the journey continued more smoothly, the children watched quietly and let the game rest. Their cousins received a realistic arrival update from Padmini. There was no demand that Rohan make up time or rescue the lunch plan through heroic driving.

They arrived, parked appropriately and waited until it was safe to get out. Only then did Kabir run his eyes over the whole red car with the seriousness of an inspector finally permitted to examine the complete exhibit.

At lunch, their cousin asked how many red cars they had seen.

Ira gave the agreed number. Kabir gave a much larger number.

Padmini raised an eyebrow.

“Different category,” he said. “Emotional appearances.”

Rohan laughed. “How many times did ours win?”

Kabir patted the stationary car later, before they walked inside together.

“Every time I looked,” he said. “It never let us down.”

Read when you’re a passenger or safely off the road. Never while driving.