Maidless in the Jungle .

 Last week my maid developed flu . A mild illness , but one that entailed bed rest and also unrest on my part . In India , we are so used to having someone do your chores , update you with the neighbourhood gossip , and troubleshoot ; that an absence can create mild havoc . Besides , we live in a village sitting at the heart of a jungle . The faintest sign of civilisation ( read , shopping complexes ) are at least 30 kilometres away .

While R (that is her initial ) recuperated , I cleaned , scrubbed , swept and mopped the place . Years of practice has given R a definite edge . All these aforementioned tasks require roughly one and a half hours , when R accomplishes them . I needed exactly double the time , with frequent water / juice / music breaks .

I realised certain basic truths about life , which I enumerate here

1. Long nails and housework do not go together . It is an either -or situation , clear cut . Dish soaps are not meant to be kind to your nail varnish , the mop & broom handles plus your scotch brite scrubber will chip your nails . Better to keep them short . Better still , unpainted .

2. You can’t lift up dirt on a dustpan without handles . R had been telling me of the broken dustpan and I had been postponing buying a new one . No more . Choices are few . You can also broom away your housedust into the a narrow strip of beaten earth that surrounds your home , but there is no guarantee that it won’t attract wildlife from the great beyond , to come and taste your biscuit crumbs and nail parings . Worse , they may be hungry for more . Hence , dust pans .

3. You must have Imagine Dragons on your playlist , when cleaning your home . If you can play it really loud on a bass speaker , it will loosen the cobwebs in the corners of your house , and give you the much needed push to get off your chair . It is like one of those patriotic songs they must be playing before wars . It fills you with much needed enthusiasm .

4. Doing house work does not justify drinking sugary drinks . Since housework , like workout, varies in intensity and duration , there is no knowing how many calories have been burnt . I always succumb to this ill logic , and sweet cravings , after one bout of mild house work . Bad decision .

5. Pace your innings . There is no need to put a bubbling pot on the stove , switch on the washing machine , and scrub pots all at the same time . Experience has taught me that the bubbling pot stops bubbling and burns its contents to the bottom , emitting thick dark clouds of sad smoke , washing machine gets stuck at the rinse phase (because the water supply has been discontinued , and you weren’t alert enough to monitor it ), and you are stuck half way through the pots , elbow deep in suds . And Imagine dragons keeps asking you to “believe “.

6. Stock up anti flu medication . When R returns , all crisp and clean , you are going to sniffle into your pillows and cough your nights away . Hence , flu med .

Relax , it is not the end of the world . Just a couple of days . This too shall pass . I am strong . Amen ( That is my current prayer ) 

Sepsis

 "Ah , so you decided to get a surgery done . On your leg!" 

" Yeah , the blistering balloons of varicosities were quite ugly to look at ." 

"So?" 

"So I got them surgically removed ." 

"But you landed in sepsis , how did that happen ?" 

" There is no substantial proof , but they say that the propofol used for the anaesthesia precipitated it "

"Were they able to isolate the organism that caused the sepsis ?" 

"yeah , much later . Because bacterial culture takes time . "

"How did you know that you  were in TSS?"

" Because I was getting disoriented , and my peripheral blood vessels had collapsed . They couldn't find a vein to start a drip." 

"So you asked to be shifted to ICU yourself . " 

"Yes , I did . Plus , there was a precipitous fall in my BP , 50 / unrecordable ." 

"What next ? " 

"They pumped me full of fluids , to bring up my blood pressure . " 

"That resulted in choked lungs ." 
"Yeah , the capillary leakage added insult to injury , my lungs were full of fluid ." 

"Then ?" 

"Then  they gave me lasix (frusemide ), to get rid of the extra fluid via the urine ." 

"That lead to hypokalemia ." 

"Yeah , I started hallucinating ." 

"So , coconut water and other potassium supplements " 

'Yeah . The sepsis caused blisters in my mouth , genitalia , and toes ." 

"That is awful . I am glad it was short lived . But it taught you great deal of medicine . ha ha ha ." 

"I also lost lot of hair . Finally I had to get my head shaved . Don't be alarmed , the hair grew back ." 

The Walkers

 “If you cannot find a good companion to walk with , walk alone , like the elephant . “ Buddha . 

(Buddha goes on to say that there are plenty benefits of walking alone rather than with someone .For instance , he talks about hindring of progress , whatever that may mean )

In our colony , too, there were people who walked . In twos , threes , or solo . 

Mr M walked alone . He lost his wife to a protracted battle with cancer , but it hampered his walk just for a day or two . He didn’t let that interfere with his daily goal of 15, 330 steps . Each round of the colony accounting for 2,190 steps . Seven rounds . Four in the morning . Three in the evening . 

Mr M has no time for niceties . For each greeting , he looks up precisely for three seconds , nods his head unsmilingly , and lowers his head . Five seconds and he is gone . Like a hurricane . He walks purposefully , taking long strides , counting steps , gaze lowered to the asphalt , leaping across potholes , manholes , and rainwater ditches .As if they do not exist . 

Mrs J and Mrs B walk in the evening . They are retirees , both in their early sixties . That phase of life , when you are not old enough to sit at home , watching TV ( like their husbands do ) or young enough to join the club ,( where younger fair maidens singger at your back ). They were both head mistresses in their hey day . Both belong to the same community , and speak in the vernacular , mostly . However , it is not long before they break into English , specially when recounting their glory days . Both are immaculately dressed in pressed crisp cotton salwaar kameez , with flowing dupattas , which they adroitly manage , and wear all the pearls and shiny baubles they used to , when addressing their schools , from the podium every morning , at assembly . Their hairs are immaculately done up , and they are wearing the perfumes and ittars of a by gone era . 

Seeing them walk , sedately , their sneakered legs moving in tandem , is almost like watching a retro movie . With breeze softly carressing their chiffon chunnis , and grey hairsprayed hair , they are like a balm to frayed nerves . Like fairies from the past . 

Unlike Mr M , they are not besieged with the pressure of goals or steps or rounds . They walk for an hour or so , till darkness descends and the street lights come on . Then they stand on the doorstep of one of them , chatting till they run out of gossip , or some one calls them in . 

They are in no hurry . 

Two retired colonels walk in the garden . Each walks alone , on a different path . Both wear sneakers as a reminder of their disciplined existence and walk with crisp , long strides , almost marching . Both have tidily tied turbans . Both meet at two points in the loop around the garden . Both nod silently and move ahead . One , however , carries a 2kg dumbell in his hand , swaying it , changing arms , when he is alone . Other , chants a prayer , almost audibly . 

One , the chanter  , sports pristine white beard , cleanly trimmed. He is also the older one  . The other has his long beard tied up neatly . 

The older has a serene calm radiating from his visage , the younger one has a fierce intensity . He also has a salt and pepper beard . 

They have little in common , except for the evening walk , where the younger one’s calisthenics and the older one’s chanting collide twice every round . 

The older one takes five rounds . The younger one keeps swinging his arms and striding into the dark night , long after the Mrs J and B have retired and Mr M is back at his home , trading online , with same assiduity , in the dimly lit apartment , where he lives alone . 

As the darkness falls , other motley groups emerge from their houses . It has been a warm day , and cool evenings are inviting . Some families take walks , post dinner , chatting late into the night . 

A celebrity couple emerges in this dark cool. The husband , stocky , dark as night , is a popular singer . The wife , a fair wispy lass , who has decided to dye her hair blond , in pink tight leggings and a neon green t shirt , she is the cynosure of all eyes . She hooks her hand in the crook of her husband’s arm and giggles fetchingly at each syllable uttered by her husband , who in turn , breaks into a snippet of a raga , without any particular reason , rendering the evening very very interesting . People stop to gawp shamelessly at this duo . 

Portly matrons stare at the couple from behind surreptitiously lifted curtains , men gawk openly , some are brave enough to greet them . All greetings go unanswered as the couple is so absorbed in their own world . This invites scowls , and whispers . The couple is , not very popular , as would be expected . 

Soon , night deepens . The one odd late night walker has departed . The singer has  taken his sporadic ragas to his apartment , from where bursts of music and laughter are faintly audible . 

The colony returns to its solitude and lampposts brood within their  circle of clarity , surrounded by inky blackness . An owl flutters back to its post on top of the lamp post , where a feast awaits him . Insects hum around , occasionally erratically thumping into the iron tube . 

The earth takes a long sigh and retires for the night . Walkers will return again tomorrow . 

Woes of a wealthy farmer

" Let me tell you my story ." 

Keeping all eyes glued on his face , he bent down to pick up his "chhota peg " , took a swig , picked up a few peanuts from the cut glass bowl , chewed them with his eyes shut , head thrown back , swallowed it slowly, savouring every bit . Then , straightening , he opened his eyes , and began .

"I lost my buffaloes ." 

"Really ? How ?" 

Buffaloes are large , visible , and noisy beings . They stomp the ground , moo loudly , splatter paths with dung , and are valuable . How could one possibly lose such a being ?

"Which one ?" Uncle A asked . Uncle A was in the army for long years . He knew that fantastic tales often had their origin in Chhota pegs . A wee bit of liquor can loosen tongues and blast inhibitions away . In some , it could trigger a tsunami of imagination too . 

"All of them ." 

"Pshaw ."  Uncle A couldn't hold back his indignation at such a tall tale .

He knew Mr P from Patiala had eight , hefty buffaloes. Each of the buffaloes cost anything between forty to ninety thousand rupees. That was tantamount to losing all your fortune in one go . Pandava fashion . Unbelievable . 

"No really . I lost them all ." 

There were tears in his eyes , so all kept quiet.

The newly opened whiskey bottle was three fourths empty .

Maudlin is the word , last looked up on Google . 

Then his pretty daughter piped up " Uncle , they really ran away." In Brit accent , with a nasal twang, and over - sincere , saucer eyes , kohl lined ,wide open .

A seconds silence  followed. No one knew how to drag the conversation further .

"Actually ,it was all the women folks' fault . " The main man , Mr P from Patiala , blamed the favourite scapegoat of all time. Women . 

The daughter's mouth fell open ,in mock disbelief. The wife smirked and looked away. Too embarrassed with the sudden turn .

" How come? " Uncle A was persistent.

" There was this get together in the neighbourhood. Ladies meet . So , entire afternoon , I was regaled with the twinkling of jewellery, plonk plonk of heels , rustling of silks , giggling of throats and the aroma of mingling perfumes. Imported perfumes vying with desi deodorants . How can a man sleep? " 

"Why were you sleeping when your buffaloes were ' running away '? " 

" I didn't know that , then . I thought they were taking an afternoon nap , just like me."

" Haah ." Uncle A swallowed a guffaw , midgut , and picked up two peanuts. 

" They were found next week." 

" If they were found,then what is the fuss? " 

" They had been put up for sale , on the panchayat WhatsApp group . My buffaloes had been bathed , massaged with oil , their horns painted and hooves trimmed and shorn . " 

"Someone took good care of your cattle." Uncle A was honest and sarcastic in the same breath. 

"Yes , but he was going to sell them . My  buffaloes." 

" How can you say that ? They might be his , for all you know. " 

"I know uncle. They were  mine ." Mr P had shifted his face within inches of uncle's. 

"How?" 

"A farmer knows his cattle." 

"How ? By hoof marks ? Or by their mooing ? " When Uncle decided to be sarcastic , there was no stopping him . Laughter bubbled at the pit of my stomach .

" My maid recognised them ."

" Your maid ?" 

"Yes sir. She milks them, feeds them and bathes them . She knows each scar , each snort , each skin pigmentation and each mark. She can even tell them apart by their distinct smell. " 

"What was she doing in the neighbour's barnyard? "

" She was visiting her sister , who works for them." 

" Then , what next ?"

"She came back home and told us . She told us that they have been prepped for the sale at the monthly cattle fair . She told me to be quick . " 

"Hmmm" .

" So , I was quick .I went to my neighbour's house and talked him out of it . We brought our cattle back home. The Lakshmi ( goddess of wealth) had returned back to my house. " 

                                $$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$

After a fortnight , some digging into this story ensued as Uncle A also knew the neighbour of this Mr P from Patiala . 

We came to know ,that the buffaloes had been actually hustled into the neighbour's compound ( Any one who own buffaloes will tell you that these are very lazy creatures , very loathe to move and seldom change directions ) , to graze on his lush green "imported " lawn grass , dropping dung and trampling his begonias , till they were rounded up and locked into the cattle shed . 

MrP was approached and informed of the misdemeanour by his black beasts and he flatly refused . He said that these ill mannered cattle were not his , and that he had nothing to do with them . Following which , they were bathed , oiled and painted and put up for sale by the neighbour .

In the end , Mr P had to buy back his  own (probably barren , i.e., not milch ) buffaloes from his neighbour and had to pay for the damages to the lawn too . 

It was a plain act of malicious vandalism ,which Mr P , decided to narrate to us from the victim point of view . 

Rain Pain

 Let’s not get it wrong . I love rains . Who doesn’t ? Specially , our beloved plants . Every tree , shrub , bush and blade of grass has come alive , all around . All have burst into verdant joy . Pale green heart shaped leaves of parasitic vines have raced up , from sheer nothingness , to cloak every dead and living tree , and smother ,bend and overwhelm every growing bush , in an emerald hued celebration of life .

Incessant rains have wet the un wettable parts of giant mango , jackfruit , shisham , sal , gulmohur , tamrind and jamun elders . Their overhead canopies , some 20 feet off the ground , has suddenly shot off in every direction , shutting off the rudimentary patches of sunshine that found its way to the forest floor . The forest appears dark , hostile , damp and dangerous . 

The forest floor has been gifted with new leafy clothings , that cloak every rotting log , every ditch and thorny branch . Even walking through the forest is fraught with hidden dangers . Then there are mosquitoes . Those pesky ,invisible produce of the moist , warm soil. Before you know , every square inch of your exposed skin is covered in welts , and you have slapped yourself silly , for no reason . One can imagine clouds of these blood suckers chuckling away after filling their bellies with your warm blood , watching you slap yourself , wherever they have stung . For the itch begins later .

Centipedes crawl out of bathroom drains , inspecting your toes , catching you in the act , literally , as you read your thought for the morning on whatsapp . Millipedes , less malignant , but numerous still , crawl up your drying towel , and fall at your feet , begging forgiveness , rolling up into tight maroon -black bundles bristling with a “million “ feet. 

On wet nights , snakes chase frogs across glistening strips of asphalts, , and are both squished , mid chase , by racing , impatient , automobiles . Their corpses remain ghastily plastered , for days , till they are weathered into nothingness .

Frogs croak in the night , vying with each other . Crickets chirp , water drips , nothing dries .

We , humans , are forever at war with the forces of nature .

We don’t like being wet always , unlike the potted plants . We , in fact , like certain chinese evergreens , start falling sick . Gastric upsets , running noses , allergies , flu and joint pains , every ailment exacerbates during monsoons .

Then come the tree roots . If there are old gigantic trees in the vicinity of your home , their roots will find a way into your feeder pipes or sewage outlets , and proliferate there with glee , blocking it summarily .