A streak of sunlight

If you think being a perfectionist is hard, you do not know what is harder. It is being the offspring of a perfectionist. Misery grows in geometric progression if one is the offspring of a pair of perfectionist parents. If one happens to be the sole heir to the perfectionism duplicated, it is calamity.
I am one of those calamified kids, scaffolded between a set of two perfectionists. Is it calamitied/ scaffolded by? Or maybe simply calamity, folded in between them. Crushed may be more appropriate. Never mind. You get the feeling I hope. Had it been my mother, she would have torn her hair (and mine) trying to find out the perfect word and the perfect syntax to say what she wanted. Or she would have consulted my dad and together they would have combed the dictionary inside out, upside down But not before bringing their collective blood to boiling point.
I am a college student. How have I survived the tyranny of perfection squared all these years? Like a body making its antibodies to fight infections, I too make my own anti-perfection-bodies to keep sane. When I hear ‘keep the spoons in the right order in the stand’ I just tweak one out of place, briefly that is. If it is ‘have you dried the soap after your bath?’ I put a few drops of water on the dry soap. ‘keep yesterday’s newspaper in the pile in the right order’ goes one command and I invert the magazine section inside the paper. And so on. If our flat suddenly begins to sway during your visit, do not think there’s been an earthquake. It is only catwalking for your benefit! All are impressed by the utter orderliness of the place. They search for the visitors’ book to write their comments, their wide open eyes suggest to me. Only I know how much of what fuel is burnt to achieve the effect, leaving behind much more than a mere Carbon Footprint!
My parents are meticulous in everything. From following the steps of a new recipe to keeping accounts, maintaining dairies, replying to mails, returning queries, respecting formalities…it feels as if their individual and joint I is/are forever splashing in an antiseptic solution. Being above board is what life is above all for them. No one can reproach them of ignoring a family function, of not expressing appropriate remarks for appropriate occasions. I find it mystifying that two very alike personalities should be living in unison. Aren’t opposites supposed to attract each other? Or maybe they caught the perfection bug one from the other. The thing about perfectionists is that they do not think they have caught a bug. Perfection in everything is the only way for them to live - stress, strain et al. If you can call it ‘living’ that is.
One look at my mother’s account book makes my innards do a figure of eight. The day and the date of each minute expense are all there for any CA to scrutinize – if he needs to know how many packets of Whisper (with wings) she bought in Feb 2008. All tallied to the last paise at the end of the day. Each page looks like a handcrafted computerized supermarket bill. What practical purpose does it serve? I agree she has an awesome memory but I simply feel she could put it to better use. Like memorize the Bhagawat Geeta. My mother works from home. She works her home at the same time. You can find the latest ‘Home’ magazine neatly nestling in the magazine rack. It is not just for idle viewing. My mother makes sure to bring (is it wring?) changes in the flat as and when an issue of the home Bible proposes one. ‘Go floral’ this summer’ it says and she goes flowery – that is our home. ‘show off your antiques’ it suggests and she hurriedly hunts for genuine antiques in fake shops or maybe fake antiques in genuine shops. Carpenters are permanent fixtures in our lives – to ensure that no fixture is permanent. The house forever wears the look of a new stage setting – except that no drama happens. Perfectionists just like settings for their own sake.
My father occupies a very senior position in the corporate world. He owns all the latest gadgets, always smells fresh and he never forgets to dye his hair. He values his looks and the value they hold for his clients and associates. If he has any ‘weaknesses’ like cigarettes or more, they are behind a smokescreen. If he has any affairs roaring (looks mighty possible to me), they are perfectly camouflaged with dramatic demonstrations of affection to my mother. But I like to imagine him with another woman – maybe his secretary – who is not as perfect as my mother. Someone to help him breathe a little fresh air away from home. At home he is generally likeable though he can blow his fuse if the power fails during a cricket match. Perhaps the electricity board and other utility services should get trained under my parents for efficiency.
We have two maid servants. They are the perfect antidotes to the perfectionists. They work individually and in tandem to ruin my parents’ peace. I would say they are the only creatures who enliven the stage setting of our home. Either one of them is absent on an impulse or she is present with her waggery tongue, which is just as bad. But suffer them we must for the day will not roll on without their able steering. A child can be subdued into obedience but a maid? And two of them? What’s more, they can ruin reputations with a simple wag of their duel or multiple tongues. It is wholesome fun for me to see someone as uneducated as the maids rattle my parents’ fortress like Peace.
Sometimes I wonder why I have no brothers or sisters. Like the two maids, we could have been on a roll, well…maybe not so blatantly, but at least behind the perfect backs of my parents. It is not hard to figure it out though. For perfectionist parents, bringing out (like an issue of Home) a perfect child is the ultimate height to attain and making more than one child is taking more than one risk. By dint of hard work, lots of lecturing and painstaking example setting, my parents have ingrained in me the(ir) values of a foolproof, perfect life. They think two is better than one when it comes to setting an example.
Have I been living up to their expectation you may wonder. From music to dance to computers to summer camps and winter camps, monsoon treks, theatre workshops, cruises, drives and flights, to yoga and regular visits to the beauty parlour, I have been spared nothing. My mother preserves my certificates neatly (carbon dated!) for future reference. Boyfriends? A few teen crushes behind the screen are all I have off the record. I do not think my parents are so old fashioned that they fear my friendships can sully their status in society. They let me go to the movies with friends though I feel there may be a private detective in the next row. They have their ways of keeping undesirable elements off me. Once in a while my mother and I go dress-shopping. Thank God I am not the fussy kind like my friend. Sometimes my mother, when in ‘available’ mode, walks into my room for an informal, friendly chat. A blast of chill maternal air blows into my face. I can increase my bust by an inch or two, she says, tuck the waist in a wee bit. The down half is perfect, let me not meddle with it, goes her advice. Is my hair looking healthy she fusses and feels through. Is the imported shampoo working its wonders? Is the skin glowing? Is the complexion fair ‘enough’? And than she throws a sweeping glance across the room to seize what is not perfect and redeems it then and there. Draws the floral curtain an inch and half to prevent any outside influence – dust and sunlight – from coming in. When I was in the throes of nascent adolescence, she was there to guide me, I’d say, with a face mask on and gloved hands and with answers to FAQs on the tips of her fingers. No, I did not ask her any questions.
Here comes my eleven year old daughter. A modern day obese thing, clad in a tight T shirt and short shorts with a bulging tummy and a hint of breasts already! Her short hair is flying all awry. Her hands are grubby. I am reading a book, lying on the divan. She lunges at me, gives me a tight kiss on my cheek, makes the book fall down and chuckles gleefully. Her eyes sparkle with mischief. I am carried away by the liveliness they exude. ‘Mummy, I am hungry. Make me some Maggi’ she hugs me. I return the hug and tell her to get a packet from the cupboard. As we boil the water and she breaks the noodles, spilling some on the floor, she excitedly tells me about the day’s happenings. And suddenly she goes ‘how does one fall in love mummy?’ Negotiating the unevenly broken magi pieces in the boiling water to uniformity, I tell her, ‘it is simple. If a boy likes a girl, he just tells her ‘I love you. Do you also love me?’ she is all attention. ‘of course, it can go the other way too . If a girl likes a boy, she too can tell him ‘I love you’. She is happy with the explanation and forgets the rest in the elation of simple steaming Maggi. Yesterday it was home made burgers. This is hardly the food to give an obese child but I think otherwise. To hell with inches, up, down or middle; she will work her way out of her obesity with time. But the fun of these moments and the delight of a trusting bond will nurture her when she forsakes calories on her own. I do not train my guns at the perfection of the future. I invest in imperfections of happiness now. ‘Mummy, story’ she begs. The homework can wait, I too think so. A post-Maggi 10 minute break is good for health! Anyways there is nothing more fun than stories – for her and for me. I make up my own and they are always about creatures with imperfections. The forgetful boy, the lazy lizard, the stammering girl etc. My stories are about their silly adventures, not about how they lived ever after. How easily they come to me! I should thank my parents for this talent, the only one they didn’t nurture. My stories suit her fine too, this bundle of imperfection that I have. She dozes off with a smile on her face. I bend over her chubby face, kiss it ever so lightly, make a dimple in her round cheeks, I feel her chocolate brown skin. When I look up a glorious sight awaits me. Through a crack in the wall I can see glimpses of the most wonderful sunset. It begs to be captured in my memory.
Sunset? Crack in the wall? Where?
The floral curtain flies just a bit to let in a streak of morning sunlight. As I rub my sleepy eyes, I am startled that a curtain in my room has actually allowed it in.

It's a dog's life



I should be Kalu, or Kalia or Blackie. Maybe Karuppan. That is how the world would want me to be called and recognized. I know it.
No prizes for guessing who I am.
But kalu, Kalia, Blackie or Karuppan are not me. Raja is what I think and feel like. In other words I am convinced my name is Raja, though no one has as yet called me that – or anything.
So I am Raja the ink black, jet black pup, with a tail curved in a (capital) C. I am a fair couple of weeks old. I was born with almost half a dozen siblings, close to a municipal garbage bin. After a cosy infancy of shared teats, warmth near Mummy and sibling fights and frolic, our life changed. Mummy just shook herself off us one fine day and went away, trusting her instincts and ours. We hung around together for some time but then found our own callings. Among us was one with a white mark on his forehead and with paws which made him look as if was wearing white socks. When he had strayed a few yards away from us, a young girl came, declared him ‘cho chweet’ and carried him away. The rest of us wandered about, learned to eat whatever we found. One fine day one of my siblings ran after a plastic bag flying across the road. He was crushed under the wheels of a car. His pitiable yelping frightened the remaining siblings. We huddled together for a while but Nature taught us to move on.
Then I found that I was not like the others. The other ink black pup forever raided the garbage bin, the greedy pig! I disliked this habit and decided to move away from there. It is while walking in the narrow lane, all by myself for the first time, that I realized I had a mission in life. The question ‘who am I?’ arose in me. Rather it was the other way round. Unless I got the answer to that question I could not find what my mission in life was.

I did not run away into a forest seeking enlightenment. I decided that since I was born a dog, I needed to find out as much as I could about the life of dogs, in whatever way possible. So I learned to keep my ears and eyes wide open at all times. My mind had to be lucid and objective.
On the one hand I felt wild instincts in me. My growing teeth longed to pull, chew and bite anything. I wanted to mark my territory and shoo off invaders. I wanted to growl and snarl. On the other, the capital C tail of mine felt the urge to wag at whoever came my way. I wanted to follow some human into submission. I have a complex character, I thought. How will I be when I grow up?
I began to observe as many dogs as possible. I saw a diseased dog with his coat all gone and a mere thin line for tail. The sight made my stomach churn. There was a poor lame fellow hopping on three legs. Having four legs was a great blessing. One day I saw a huge brown dog (8 times taller than me) on a leash, walking like a dainty lady with a man. Another day it was a tiny doggie, twice smaller than me, with a silly shrill bark, sitting on a lady’s lap. I was repulsed as much by the leash as by the lap. One day I followed a man walking with a sick pup to a vet’s clinic. From a vantage point, I saw some animals there; I didn’t waste my time looking at the others, but trained my attention on the dogs. Some had bruises on them, some were moaning in pain. Their masters were comforting them as if they were babies. Lucky animals!
And yet, there were those who said that Indian street dogs were smarter and healthier than all those imported fancy pets who needed air conditioned comfort to survive. I felt proud to be an Indian street dog though I could not as yet tell if I belonged to a distinguished breed (because I had distinguished thoughts). I thought I would do my best to smarten myself up further. Whenever I could find a glass door or a mirror, I would look at myself. A side glance showed me a bit of my profile. I had a snub puppy nose, 4 short legs, a smooth, non-furry black coat but it was the capital C which stood out elegantly. I have heard people say non-complimentary things about a dog’s tail. I think a dog’s soul resides in its tail and for sure the tail should not bend to outside commands. I hoped that some day my flat nose would grow long and pointed, that my baby ears folded in half would open out into two sharp, shapely perked up ones. Of course I needed long legs to be a dog with a mission. I took care not to roll in mud and dirt to keep my coat as black as possible. When I came across a leaking street tap or a water tanker, I dutiful washed and shook myself. But no one thought I was chweet. Some people shooed me away, some walked away afraid, most were simply indifferent to my presence. Since I was Raja with a mission, I did not let myself be disappointed by such trifles.

I heard stories about brave dogs, adventurous dogs, saviour dogs, police dogs, guide dogs. They were my role models. I found that I was at my meditative best when I lay on a heap of (clean) sand, with my feet up. Maybe the pose brought me good, positive energy. I heard of dogs minding sheep in some parts of the world, of dogs rescuing people in the mountains. I clearly could not aspire to such noble careers given that I was living in a crowded Indian city. When my day to day survival was itself an adventure, I could not think of rescuing others. While walking along a shady avenue, I saw houses with gardens. Some had pictures of fierce dogs with ‘beware of dog’ written on them. I paused at a gate to catch a glimpse of one. In some time a huge black, furry dog came running to me, all growls and snarls. I backed out, careful not to tuck my capital C within my legs (that is for lesser dogs). Then another day I passed near the Police grounds. I watched open –mouthed as lovely black dogs (do they polish them?) stood in a row, alertly listening to the commands they were given. I wished I too could be part of them. Never mind. Standing outside the gate I imitated them, jumped when they jumped, ran when they ran and pretended to fetch things when they did it. Like Eklavya I thought I would do my best before a teacher thought me worthy to be trained.
I learned through observation and listening that stray dogs were routinely stoned, caught or killed. I felt sorry for them but at the same time disapproved of those fierce dogs who made life hell for poor ragpickers or who chased bikes and car barking like fools. We might have had wolves for ancestors but today our lives were intertwined with humans’. As long as I was a street dog with my mission undiscovered, I had to keep a low profile and not get on anyone’s nerves and remain healthy. Love affairs would be a big no no to keep sane. And then there were some good souls who bought Parle G biscuits by the packets and thought it added good points to their karma to feed street dogs. I thought it was not really demeaning to take the offer, as I would be promoting their karmic bonus. Plus the biscuits were branded. Unlike that useless sibling of mine, I stayed away from unhygienic bins. When hunger gnawed, I would quietly sit near a tea stall or a butcher’s and more often than not, get a bite of a bun, a small sip of milk or a small chunk of meat and bone.
Then I heard about the dog which took a train on his own to follow his master. Though I had no master to follow (as yet) I tried to enter a train station. It was no problem as there were as many dogs there as humans. But getting into a train was not possible. My legs were too short and from the way people jostled about, I would surely end up as a jet black puppy paste under their feet. Never mind, I told myself, that may not be my mission. In the station I saw some really impressive dogs with policemen, sniffing at odd packets left on the ground. I tried to imitate them but I did not know what to sniff out and why. Perhaps one day I would….
The other day I saw a strange sight. Passing near a big house I heard barks in different pitches. When I peered in through the slits in the gate, I saw a dog party happening. Pups like me, wearing caps on their head, some with frilly costumes were running about here and there. The owners of the dogs were shrieking in excitement. They had games for their doggies and some lovely looking food too. Did I envy them? No. I much preferred my freedom and my way of living to theirs. Did they enjoy these parties? Did they like wearing those silly costumes? I wouldn’t. Especially when I had a mission in life.

Now that’s a lot of experience for a little pup you would think. While lying on a mound of clean wet sand – the building boom assures me of finding them everywhere – I thought to myself. I have survived thus far. I am not born to be a heroic dog, nor a guard dog. I cannot aspire to be a police dog. So far I have no clue of my pedigree. Then what will I be?

And the answer came one day after a month or so. When I was resting under a tree, someone came near me. He was a boy of about 10. He sat down near me, nearly crushing my Capital C tail. While I tried to move away he gently touched me. He felt my body with his hands and said ‘puppy’. I understood that he could not see me. He was blind. Like a flash of lightning, I knew I had found my mission in life. I needed no training to become his guide dog. My capital C wagged with all its might, unrestrained. I licked his face as if I had done it throughout my life. I saw a tear trickle down his shut eye and felt my own eyes moisten in empathy. I placed a paw on his hand and he called me by my very own name. Raja. He was as homeless as I was and together we felt owned. By each other, by the street, by the whole wide world.

थे पिंक slip

The pink slip came as a bolt out of the blue and she saw red. The ensuing hues of grey, from dull ash to threatening storm, filled her mind. No no, it was not she who had lost a job, it was her husband. The prospect of his idling at home, with no income on the one hand and intruding into her space on the other, is what the grey spectrum was all about. His temper, his selfishness and demands made up some of the shades of grey. The boredom and grumpiness of their togetherness made up the rest.

5 years into a made– by - others marriage had taken them nowhere. It had not taken off at all. A plane prematurely, permanently grounded. Who was to blame? As if overcome by an allergic itch, relatives and ‘well wishers’ busy themselves to find spouses for other’s children. With no inkling of their personalities, their needs or disposition, they base their judgment on an astrologer’s predictions and status-caste matching. It is almost ok till here. But where the process falls woefully short is after the marriage. Parents conveniently forget that they have approved of the match and ‘fixed’ it- what an euphemism!-and they blame the other family for anything less than perfection according to their standards. This only deepenes the existing chasm between the spouses. It is like planting a seedling and leaving it to its own fate without nourishing it.

He found her lacking in most of the attributes he would associate with marriage: she was not meticulous in housework. She was stuck in a rut, could not look beyond the obvious. She was not an intellectual companion, nor any lesser companion for that matter. Her looks were average, her shape was far from desirable. The bedroom - forget it! Who would feel aroused in the presence of such a partner? Then of course, she loved gossip. It never struck her to make him a cup of coffee when he came home from work.
‘he knows what he wants and he is not a child’ went her explanation. She didn’t shout back when he was angry, thank God for that but her sulk was worse. She would go away without a word when he pointed out a mistake and the resulting freeze would last, and simply last. It was not a lifeless freeze. It bred resentment and more of it. Tears complemented it. The bedroom? Forget it. Who ever invented the whole yucky concept of lovemaking? Thank God her twin sister lived a couple of streets away. It was her presence and their daily meetings which gave meaning to her life and sustained her and her marriage, by default. She had in fact, married him by default, as she had nothing to say against. And because her twin lived in the same city, she had had no qualms about marrying a guy from the same city.
Nor had he had qualms about marriage. Nor any forebodings. His parents thought it was time for him to tie the knot. And tie it he did. They had found a girl from a ‘good’ family, who had been ‘up to college’, who came with a rosy dowry.. That’s all.
He was a manager in a private company. Managing what who knows! She was not the particularly inquisitive kind to probe and seek. It didn’t interest her. He gave her a fixed amount of money to manage the month and their ended their monetary interaction. If it was sufficient for all their needs and for anything more she fancied he had never asked her till now.
Their honeymoon had been a mini disaster. Lets say their first togetherness had torn them apart.
From then on, Glacier Lambert sat between them at all times.
And now this.
What would change in her life, she wondered. She would have to cook more for sure, maybe make more coffee and tea for him. Maybe his friends would come home to ruin her peace.
Within a week she knew better. It was all of the above and also having a detective’s eye constantly trained on her. Keeping track of her activities, conversations, expenditure. Why, even her sleep. He still expected his shirts to be well ironed, though he was no more manager. He expected breakfast like always though he had no place to leave for in a hurry. From where money would come for the coming months, she had no idea.
Digging into his pre-marriage savings did not appeal to him but he saw no other way till he found another job.
He felt suffocated in the house. At thee end of the first week at home, he had a fair idea of what his wife’s routine was like, though she seemed to gloss over bits of it in his presence. He was not particularly fond of her twin sister. When she came home once or twice, he gave her a forced smile and went away. His wife seemed to keep herself occupied with worthless small activities throughout the day. She did not read any books, she did not stitch or embroider, as the match maker had claimed. She cooked ok, never served him or ate with him.
Glacier Lambert sat between them.
Finally supremely bored of observing his pear shaped wife day in and day out, he decides to go out for a while. It is 10 am. He has already gone through the vacancies page in the newspapers. He has found nothing worth applying for.
She is relieved to see him out. She does a spot of cleaning. The bed is unoccupied for a change. So she removes the sheet and dusts the bed. Something falls down. A small book it is. books do not attract her, so she thinks of putting it back then notices the cover. A skimpily clad buxom girl posing …’eeeeeks’ she shouts as if she has sighted a big cockroach. Gingerly she opens the book. There are more pictures of girls and some stupid stories of love and what not. Nauseated, she hastily puts the book away from where it dropped.
In the middle of the night, when she suddenly wakes up from her sleep, she notices him reading the book in the light of a torch. Just a passing sight. She falls asleep again.
The next morning, after a hurried breakfast, when he leaves the house to attend an interview, she goes to the bedroom first. Looks beneath the pillow. Sure enough, the creepy book is there; why, it seems to have clones of it too, like from under a magic pillow. Now they do not threaten her like so many cockroaches; instead she calmly opens one. Third rate pictures of girls, in dull colours and lurid stories. She actually leaves the bed undone and reads through one. When the churning in her stomach has subsided, she takes a deep breath, puts the books back and proceeds with her work.
Something has changed.
Not given to thinking, she does not analyse what has changed. Only feels ruffled from within, by what she does not know.
For once, she has faced something she cannot share with her twin. Why, she does not know.
The pink slip is now one month old. The grey spectrum too is one month old. What has changed is the frequency of her meetings with her twin. He goes out regularly after breakfast, comes back for lunch, then stays put in the house. So she cannot dash across to her sis’s for a spot of coffee and gossip. Not that their being at home from the afternoon, through evening does much to warm the icy environs.
Slowly, he begins to notice things. Really small things about his wife. Like how she spreads some grains of rice near the balcony for the two pigeons who come there courting. How she actually sounds sweet when she talks to the neighbour’s toddler sitting on her lap. How the vegetable vendor respects her and how she listens attentively to his woes and counsels him and how she actually sounds melodious when she occasionally hums a bit of an old film song while working. Then she is consistent in following a time table unlike him, given to whims and moods. She might not do fabulous embroidery but she makes small, shapely rangolis every morning. And…is it his illusion that she actually takes more time and care to cook now?
She is surprised. Instead of feeling disgusted at him for the books he reads, she is actually feeling something different. She knows him to be a learned man- a double degree holder, had said the aunty. Why should he have to read such cheap books? What should she do?
No, no, she does not want to rush into his arms, nor is she feeling insecure vis a vis the stupid girls in the book. She has never claimed any place in his heart till now to fear it gone. They share a deluxe double bed with U foam mattress only because her father bought it for them and there is no other bed in the house.
Is she then feeling sorry for him? She doesn’t know if the pink slip is well deserved, justified or unfair. So she has not asked him about it.
Yes, he is relieved that she does not nag him about the pink slip. His friend’s wife, for all her oozing wifely love, is after him to get back to work. He realizes that he has never felt any possessiveness, let alone express it, towards his wife. It is fine to talk about personal freedom and all that but possessiveness also brings about a sense of belonging. One hangs loose like an oversized shirt on a hanger without someone claiming possession of one’s heart and welfare….and body..
The next day, after he leaves, she is once more in cleaning mode. She feels a new surge of energy in herself, as yet unidentified. While cleaning his study table, which she usually avoided meddling with, she comes across his German books and dictionaries, all coated in a thick layers of dust, lying under heaps of papers with his handwriting on them. For a moment she gazes at one. She actually likes his well formed bold handwriting. She opens a book and though she understands not a word, she smiles. Something like a small ball of pride swells within her, that her husband knows a foreign language. He must be intelligent. He must be knowing things that she doesn’t know.. Her ego does not protest for it barely exists. .She wipes the books, blows away the dust and carefully rearranges them.
He notices the changes. Says a gentle ‘thanks’.
She no longer bothers about the under-the-sheet books. They have done their bit for her. He too no longer bothers about them. For he begins to find someone more interesting right before him.
It is almost three months now since pink slip happened. Instead of being proportionately depressed, he seems inversely happier. The hands-on learning gained within the four walls of his home is worthier than all the degrees, trainings and seminars of the outside world. Damn the savings! Who cares! Inputs jostle within him to be processed. Actually his wife’s pear shaped figure is not that bad, especially when compared to his own drumstick body, he grins. He regrets the air of intellectual superiority he has learnt to put on before her. She has never contested it. Simply accepted it as real. but the distance the put-on façade has created between them is equally real. all these years he thought that shouting and pointing out mistakes made him superior. The three months at home have taught him otherwise. She is not brilliant, but she is genuine. She has no corrections to make. He has to make lots of them.
Five years wasted. Does not matter. So many people spend a lifetime wasted by their illusions. The pink slip came at the right time.
A new grey appears in the spectrum. The sexy grey of a clean slate!

A brief interlude

He is on his way back from work. Seated on his loyal two wheeler, his black bag slung across his shoulder, helmet on head, he is the Anonymous Techie in a metro. Not that he minds it. Life has been good to him. So what if traffic snarls make him reach home at 8 pm? He makes use of the traveling and waiting time at signals to retrospect, to analyse and to plan for the morrow. Logic and efficiency are his hallmarks.

His wife is a PR executive in a good firm. He wanted a working wife and his parents found one for him, the best in fact. Their married life is one smooth run, with a few stops here and there like at traffic signals. The working world has taught them to accept hitches and gloss over incorrigibles. When she is not home, he cooks and vice versa; or it is Subway sandwich or Dominos Pizza. All runs by mutual consent. When he is tired he just hits the sack. When she is tired, it is ditto. Their lives are so busy neither questions the purpose of this union nor its destination. Kids? NOOOOOOOO. A houseful of gadgets, yes of course. Traveling together, very occasionally, socializing, lesser still. After all the PR Madam is up to her neck in people and she only wants is a bit of quiet at home.

They own a little flat. Why little you may wonder when they are rolling in money. They are just biding their time. They plan to sell this one off and acquire a bigger flat in due course. With a 100% profit of course. The gadgets are all in place but still a smart, automated home is their current dream, when they have the time to dream jointly or share their individual dream. Neither is against material comforts. The more the better.

He parks his vehicle in the parking lot, takes off his helmet and bag, gets into the lift and reaches the 1st floor. Opens the door of a darkened house. Braces himself to don the apron.

It is morning. She has an important recruitment drive so has left early. He gets up, makes his tea and goes to the balcony to catch a glimpse of the world around. There are buildings to the left and to the right; people having tea, reading their papers and doing the usual things. The usual and the routine are so comforting he thinks. It looks unlikely that a suicide bomber will blow himself up in such a setting. Everyone wants a certain order in life and for the order to go on uninterrupted for as long as possible. When he glances in front he notices a change. The vacant plot facing the balcony has suddenly sprung to life. A builder’s coveting nose has smelt potential there. He has nothing against development. If the structure to come blocks sunlight to his flat he can’t be bothered. He rarely sees the sun rise or set anyways.

In two days time, a small hut with a thatched roof has sprung up. The watchman’s temporary shelter. He glosses over the change like reading the classified section of the paper.

In four days he notices something. The hut has a square rusted tin near the door. An outdated, out of the world, dented tin container which some day had held 20 kgs of cooking oil. It is filled with soil and a tulsi seedling is trying to find a foothold in the world. A small extinct earthen lamp is near the plant. He forgets it in the realities of his virtual world.

On a Sunday morning, he is feeling particularly relaxed. His wife is on a tour. He makes himself an extra strong cup of tea, tucks the bulky Sunday paper under his arm and makes it to the balcony. Settles down into a beanbag, not before casting a glance in front. The plant has grown, just by a wee centimeter or so. Looks like a well cared for, recently breast-fed infant. He smiles at his own imagery.

Now he looks forward to Sunday mornings. If alone, better. From his perch, he likes to see the Tulsi grow. Now it is about 6 inches tall. The dented tin container is still there, its soil always wet, its surroundings clean. The earthen lamp is there too and now he wishes he could see it lit. Just one of those unformed, passing thoughts.

On Saturday evening, after enjoying a day of total relaxation, lots of internet activity, a spot of interaction with the wife mostly in their joint culinary efforts, he suddenly remembers the plant. So instead of closing the balcony door at 6, he leaves it ajar. A phone call later when he comes back, the earthen lamp is lit before the plant. He even senses the mild fragrance of incense. He is no more the same.

He goes back in time, or rather is pulled back in time. To his student days in Mumbai. Hailing from a small town, he is awe struck by all that the city has to offer. But he is particularly fascinated when passing kilometers of slum bordering the main road. From his seat in the bus, he watches the huts teeming with life and bustling with activity. Industrious men and women with their small businesses in the available space. Dads and grandpas cuddling babies. Stray dogs living in harmony with the teeming population. A storey added to an already doubtful structure. Women washing the family clothes. Women haggling with vendors. What touches a chord in him however is the little attempts at greenery. Their roofs may be leaking, dirty linen may be hanging on the door or whatever goes for a door, but some houses have reserved space, the area of a broken plastic bucket or tub to plant a little something in it. He wonders why the sight is so moving. Goes on the same route day after day to look more and analyse his feelings. He comes to the conclusion that it is that extra dimension of these poor people which moves him. A well cared for plant in the middle of poverty is for him a powerful symbol. Of what….he strives to define. The capacity to look beyond misery, the capacity to sanctify life, the capacity to care. If a plant can get so much care, it suggests, these human beings must also care for each other. The famous indifference and anonymity of the metro is reserved for high rises and the affluent.

The sight of the slum and the feelings it evokes in him are cathartic. They help him feel more at home in the city. They also give birth to a poet, a painter, and a thinker. Pencil sketches of infants being bathed in the middle of the pavement, canvasses of creepers decorating doorways, poems on togetherness in poverty. The first year in the city has brought out the best in him. He feels energetic- not like his buddies who drink away their week ends by way of fun - but in a different way. A bus ride on this road with the slums always does something to him.

All that is history. A phase in evolution. He shifts residence, now takes the electric train to college. Other distractions come his way. Competition, activities in college, girls….the paintings and poems are put away in a plastic bag in the loft. His flatmates do not even know of his talents. Then it is graduation and the haloed entry into the adult world of money, work and marriage, a point of no return-to anywhere-he feels at times. Cosily ensconced in his well programmed programming world of logic, he is now a thorough metro being.

The tulsi plant, gently swaying in the breeze, has unensconsed him, just a bit. It may not be the plant per se, he deduces, but the assumption that a poor man/woman has once more looked beyond survival to beautify Life and sanctify it. The tulsi plant gently leads him to look within himself. But within him is too crammed: with programs, logic, projects, adjustments and deadlines. No moving space. He closes the balcony door.

But now, door closed or open, his mind is on the plant and all that it represents. Having hashed and rehashed the significance of it for himself, he now wants to go beyond. so he imagines the person who waters the plant and lights the lamp. Not a man for sure. The watchman’s wife maybe, who finds the means to spare some of the oil she buys for the family. He has not seen the watchman closely and so cannot determine the woman’s age. Never mind; the logical mind visualises her – for once without proof - as a young, fulsome woman. Draped in a simple cotton sari, lush, black wavy hair, a tiny nose stud and a perfectly round red bindi, ever so graceful, in her thoughts, her beliefs and her devotion. She must be a woman of substance and strength. The temporariness of her situation has not prevented her from practicing what her upbringing has ingrained in her. The act of lighting the lamp must leave her mind so cleansed of bad thoughts (as if she was EVER capable of it). She must be a dutiful wife, cooking for the husband (no, she does not deserve the additional burden of kids), whatever simple fare they can afford without having to pawn any meager belongings. She may be working as a domestic help maybe in his own building. She is honest, mindful of the employers’ comforts, keeps her time, honors her commitments and does not covet material possessions she sees in the workplace. Briefly said, she is Pure.

The Tulsi is now a full grown shrub, laden with a profusion of delicate flowers. It has weathered uncertainty and is now firmly holding its ground, literally. His tryst with the plant is similar. It grew, kindled his thoughts and flowered. But what now? The excitement of seeing the plant grow has gone. If anything is growing, it is the developer’s dream construction and his bank balance. The building is up on stilts and workers are busy, carting material and constructing. Maybe the watchman’s wife is among them too. An ordinary, frustrated old hag with aching limbs, forever groaning. Beating her sickly kids. Cursing her husband, not cooking for him.

Nooo, he stops this line of thought. He stops everything. The brief interlude into another world was too good to develop further. A glimpse into himself has been reassuring though. He still has observation, he still has imagination, he has his heart in the right place (though cramped), and who knows…maybe one day, the other He would trounce the techie and reclaim his space.