I must have been five or six years old. It was one of those perfect mid-mornings when you’ve had a satisfying round of playtime with friends and are now waiting for lunch to be called.

During such intervals, I would flip through Champak or Chandamama, my ears tuned to Mummy’s call from the kitchen. It must have been a festival because I remember her frying special goodies and we were all looking forward to the feast.

My sister was on the sofa, busy reading and essentially ignoring me.

Then, out of the blue, she asked if I had ever wondered why I didn’t have a nickname. Of course, I hadn’t.

She went on to explain that only children who are loved get nicknames. Those who don’t have one, clearly aren’t loved.

Since she had a nickname and I didn’t, her logic immediately set off alarm bells. This was clearly a serious problem.  I immediately ran to the kitchen to check with Mummy.

In her candid style, she said there was no need to shorten an already short name like mine. When I asked if there was any correlation between the parental love index and having a nickname, she curtly asked me to leave the kitchen.

Highly dissatisfied with this response, I waited for Papa. The moment he came home, I asked him the same question.

His answer was perfect. He said that when a child is already lovely and cute, there is no need for another endearment.

I was absolutely thrilled. I decided to quietly bask in the warmth of his comment rather than share it with my sister. Knowing her creativity, she would surely have found another way to burst my balloon of happiness.