Brief vignette of a navel gazing writer wanna be

I would really like to contend that I was a child prodigy in literature:

Picture a plump little toddler clad only in a thickly wadded loin wrap, bent over a long, ruled page, painstakingly inscribing baby scrawls, cute pudgy fingers grasping a much chewed up pencil stub, tongue lolling out in concentration, working on a babyish tale about rabbits and ants fighting over fruits, hardly glancing at the steaming bowl of lovely, aromatic rice pudding (payasam) his mother has placed beside him with brimming pride, tearing eyes and gut wrenching affection –

But that would be patently false.

Well, I did have a rabbit for a pet for a brief while, but it was taken away mercifully from my curious hands because you know, it had this lovely soft, pristine white down that just invited savage plucking. As to ants, I loved to poke a stick in the tiny anthills in our small backyard and pull it out to watch all the tiny insects scramble all around. My mother would shriek in fright, startling me, for I could never gauge the gravity of ants running up my tiny fingers, and red ones they were too, till a year later a big, black ant latched onto my pink, juicy little toe. My mother wasn’t home then, having gone out to the hawking cart in the street to buy my favourite ripe tomatoes that I used to think were lovely fruit that weren’t cloyingly sweet. To this day, I prefer fruits that are about to ripen, not the fully done, repulsively soft, mushy ones.

I still love payasam and get it regularly and I’ve not written a novel yet.