In this colony ,being mentioned, there are special sprawling bungalows for the super-rich , medium sized flats for the middle -class , and match box apartments for the nearly have -nots.
There are very few occupants in the super-rich category . Most buyers , live abroad , come once in a blue moon , get the house cleaned , driveway hosed , heavily -tip the maids /ayahs/ watchman / mali , (thereby angering the perennial residents ) , take selfies in hastily cut lawns , and leave in a cloud of dust , before you can say NRI.
One visible exception was Mrs. Lohal .
She might as well have lived in Beverly hills .She was an emblem of decorum and propriety. She had white , alabaster skin and wore a gigantic string of pearls with dresses that were impossible to place. Trousers and shirt which emitted gossamer fabric , of various hues , at regular intervals. That , plus her short statured , hunch backed , slightly bulging midriff , would make her look like an exotic species of gold fish.
She had puffy eyes , due , as the grapevine went , to her fondness for a peg or two , at sundown . With her false eyelashes , batting as she spoke , her eyes resembled twin igloos , or barrels of mini-cannons , shooting a steely glare , capable of felling lesser mortals. One could almost hear the faint booming sounds , while she fixed you with her stare of disapproval.
Her husband was a most ordinary mortal . Balding , paunchy , and ill-dressed , he wore the rubber soles of his cheap slippers , working at some clerkdom (the grapevine again ), in some mofussil town , on the edge of nowhere. She was embarrassed of him , and was never seen in his company. He would down vast amounts of alcohol , never wipe his mouth , burp loudly , in mixed company , and enjoy ribald jokes , his paunch shaking , jelly-like.In short , he outraged her , and took special pleasure , in doing so.
She would emerge from her self-imposed hibernation , only when he had been safely sent away , to whichever dusty realm, he had emerged from , like a hoary ghost . When asked about his next visit , she would sniff the air with disdain , shoot one of her famous black looks , through her twin igloos , and say , woundedly "Let's see." Then she would ignore the questioner , for the rest of the evening.
The most iconic scene was her evening walk . Mrs. Lohal was hunchbacked and shortsighted , hence she walked with short steps , her gaze fixed on the pavement. Her shoes were metal shod , and sounded clackety -clack , sharp , on the concrete pavement . They almost made everyone run for cover , or brace for an approaching calamity. Her mono chromatic lenses turned black in the tropical sun , and gave her the look of a spy looking for clues in the dirt .Her shuffling gait , elaborate dress and outlandish manners would often invite sneers from kids , irreverently uninhibited .
She had once caught hold of few kids and lectured them about the importance of greeting adults , and of proper attire . This made her fall further , in their eyes. They would either stop their game to gawp at her , or burst into boisterous , cruel laughter , that only kids are capable of .
Never having had kids of her own , Mrs. Lohal viewed them as a serious aberration , a pestilence that merited eradication , like cockroaches . She raised her walls , so that their sneers , shouts and laughter wouldn't reach her , nor would they trample on her immaculate lawn grass , or Belgian petunias, looking for some infernal ball.
Mrs. Lohal had a driver called Deep. An ordinary kind of a chap , he bicycled to her door , each morning , washed , dried the car , shook out the foot mats and sat picking his nose/teeth for the rest of the day , awaiting his orders. The car, a ten-year old Toyota, was driven out to the college everyday , during Mrs. Lohal's lecturer ship days , but sat now , undriven , as she had retired , and had nowhere to go really. Occasionally ,Deep would drive her to the city club , clad in her trademark gossamer finery , pearls and leaving the driveway awash with Chanel.
Two months into her retirement, Deep asked her if he could wash the car of the school teacher , who lived in the flats . She reluctantly consented , as he had little to do throughout the day. This quickly resulted in him washing the entire colony's cars. He would be occupied the entire morning, washing people's cars , and rest of the day , enjoying tea, snacks , gossip with maids , and other forms of hospitality , severely frowned upon by Mrs. Lohal. She had never so much as offered him a chair , leave alone tea . She spoke to him in grunts and monosyllables , as for her , Deep was just an instrument for being driven around . Nothing more . Mr . Lohal , in contrast , would sneak a smoke with him , and occasionally ask him his doings , when Mrs. Lohal was not looking , of course.
Mrs. Lohal was looking for reasons to sack him , and vice-versa . Both had become redundant to each other . She , one day , called Deep, and told him to stop coming from the next day, gave him his monthly salary; spread a silver coloured car cover , rather clumsily; and shut herself in . It became known that he used to keep his new acquisition , a smart phone ,on Toyota's car roof , and when it rang , it vibrated and thereby left scratches , on the roof . It was a flimsy excuse. Mrs. Lohal was suspicious of smart phones , and people , who were obviously smarter than her, to be able to use it . The watchman , wisely , stowed his way , in time , and came within hair-breadths to being sacked.
Then , one stormy night , an ambulance roared up the driveway. The headlamps threw its intrusive light into many a curtained bedroom (including Mrs. Lohal's ) , and everyone came to know , that some thing had happened in 6A, Mrs.Lohal's home .Someone was brought out on a stretcher , doors were slammed shut, and the ambulance drove away , leaving pelting hailstones and lot of questions in its wake . The storm uprooted giant trees and whiplashed the lampposts , windows with severed powerlines . Serious damage was inflicted , and almost no one was spared . Mrs Lohal's car stood in the shade of a mighty eucalyptus . That night , the hysterical winds pulled the giant from its moorings and flung it across the silver -shrouded Toyota.The car just crumpled up.
Only when the last of the fallen boughs had been towed away , power restored , and broken windowpanes replaced , that people turned their focus on 6A and its missing occupants. The Toyota company insurers had come , in the meanwhile , and had the crushed car towed away .
Mrs. Lohal had suffered a fall in the bathroom , and sustained several fractures . They healed , over a painfully long period of time , and she had to move in with her husband , whom she so despised , in the mofussil town , whom no one had ever heard of .
6A was put up for sale , with its thick velvet draperies , silk cushions , sprawling lawn and forbidding , towering walls. The new occupant , was a nouveau riche , the class again despised by Mrs.Lohal , drove around in a Tata indica , and had an enormous family move into the premises . The walls were torn down ,and extensions built onto the pristine lawns .
6A transformed from a cream coloured confection of a palace , to multicolored hues of throbbing disco lights , with millions of children running in and out , boarding buses , playing indoors , breaking china , and creating raucous rampage , where once silence resided .
The schoolteacher revealed that he saw the Lohals , once , greyed , and shrivelled , driving in a diminutive car , driven by none other than balding , paunchy , Mr Lohal . He swears Mrs. Lohal actually smiled and waved at him .
He could be imagining things , too, as didn't Deep narrate the story other day , of Mrs. Lohal gifting his newly wedded wife , a monstrous string of real, white pearls.
You keep coming back for a re-read , again and again . You memorise passages , and incidents . The characters live , breathe with you.
They do not just live in the print .
You are a spectator to the story , unfolding in the arena of your consciousness , like a battle being watched from the side lines , like a meadow of your dreams , like a song sung from the depths of your soul.
It lives with you , and is probably bequeathed (one would hope so, ) to your kids as you recount “Adventures of Tom Sawyer /Huckleberry Finn ” or Enid Blyton’s Famous Five to sleepy eyed kids drifting into dreamlands of their own.