Cyclone in the room.

The little typhoon showed her annoyance or anger in many different ways. I had classified her anger on a very high level into (a) mild (b) moderate (c) severe and (4) very severe.

She had varied array of activities (rather assaults) depending on her anger level. Her target (usually me) would have to brave him/her self to face the impending assault.

The tool of fury would be carefully selected from her arsenal, depending on the subject or object of her anger

The list of tools she had ran like this: Sharpened pencils, erasers, scissors, arrows, toys and building blocks.

Mild anger would result in least physical damage and usually subsided with throwing down a pencil or toppling a toy

Moderate anger would result in tearing a section of the newspaper or sharpening a dozen pencils one after the other - needed or not

Severe anger manifested in unpredictable ways – for she could pick up an arrow or a scissors and weighs the most suitable menacing option to impact damage.

The very severe category anger was feared by most – as it was likely to inflict injury or damage to the targeted persons / objects.

Sometimes this categorized anger dissipates with the tipping of a load of neatly stacked books on to the floor or dismantling the building blocks and flinging them over the compound wall. In the extreme form, she chose either the scissors or the arrows.

Once I had the taste of her unbridled anger. The genesis for that situation was partly my own making, albeit, inadvertently. On wearing a new dress for her birthday, she had come twice to my room to give grant me a personal audience and possibly a photo-op.

Let me start by saying that day was a horrid day; the instances that occurred previously are as follows.

I was seriously trying to compose a draft on the computer. Unforced errors like failing to press control “S” and inadvertently pressing control “W” and clicking “No” without reading the displayed panel, did me in.

After calming down from the effects of these debacles, I somehow managed to recollect most of the sentences and finished the draft.

I felt sore that I could not recollect certain sentences. My own clumsiness had caused the loss of the dear sentences.

At the end of the day, with hope in mind, that I could recover those magical sentences, I brought home the draft in the form of print out. Trusting my sub-conscious mind to aid in jolting my conscious memory to action, I slept early. Nothing materialized

Morning walk, resulted in covering of extended distance and time to mull over lost sentences, also produced the same “nothing”

This struggle went on for two more days. I kept on correcting the draft a dozen times and then it struck. Like stored water gushing through the sluice gates, the forgotten magical sentences surfaced!

What for would I wait? I furiously started re-writing the entire draft, embellishing it with now-found magical sentences. In one go, I was able to complete the fruits of my labor in three foolscap papers.

This brings us back to the part where Tantrum Sundari came to show off her new dress.

I was admiring my handy work, when I heard an impatient rap on the door. Without waiting for a reply, the little typhoon entered and banged the door shut.

I realized the first sign of trouble. Her face was taut and appeared like a possessed devil. This was indeed the second sign of brewing trouble.

She sat on the arm rest of the sofa, ignoring available space by my side. I knew from experience that this was deep or severe trouble and held fingers crossed for the events to unfold.

Small talks and jokes did not ease the tension in the air. She stared straight and remained silent, still under the weight of pent up anger.

This standoff definitely puzzled me and after the interminable wait, it got solved by itself. She unwillingly came down from her perch, sat by my side leaving enough space between us.

Even then I could not find out the cause for her stony silence and the magnitude of anger. (I wasn’t aware of her search for me)

She proceeded to survey all the objects placed on the sofa and finally targeted the draft papers. Silently she went to the side table and picked up the scissors.

I was mentally preparing to ward off the fencing attack (I was thinking that she may stab me with the scissors). Nothing forewarned me about her actual intent!

Before I could sense and react, she gathered my draft papers and shredded them in to strips. She executed the task within seconds with surgeon-like precision.

I sat speechless. (How else could I react?)

Having spent her anger, she gleefully started playing with the paper festoons.

Needless to say, I sported the stony look and stern face for days together. For a change, this time around, I commenced the cold war.