A winter's tale
Source: Originally posted at Cybage DoXperts, a Cybage Documentation team blog, on January 20, 2012.
It is very cold in the evenings. Men sporting three unbuttoned holes on the shirt are in hibernation. On my way home, I take the road less travelled. On one side of the road, there’s open space till good distance and vegetation on the other. Riding home in the nipping cold, my body stiffens and assumes a cozy curvature from which it has to be disturbed when it gets a little too peculiar. Mostly, it’s the head which sinks into my neck and needs to be pulled up. Or, I overhang from my seat to one side and later, push my bulk back to the centre when some curious riders throw awkward glances at it. Leaving that road behind, I feel I am almost at the gate of my apartment.
I forget the dread of the chill in the evening when I curl up like a dog in my duvet in the morning. But, unlike a dog whose ears go up at the slightest noise, mine are pretty hardened to any sound then. Even the unfriendly alarm cannot break my resolve of sleeping those slumbrous extra ten minutes. It takes a nagging, a constant drumming over the ear to rouse me then.
It starts far away. It's yet a distant sound, “Aloo khatm ho gaye.” “Suno, aloo khatm ho gaye.” My instinct, though dormant, tells me that something inauspicious is reaching my ears. The sound becomes more distinct. The camera moves slowly from the villain’s boots upwards. I realize the villain is actually coming for me. That aloo is the aloo gone missing in the trolley basket in my kitchen. The messenger bringing the news is none other than my dearest wife. And, she expects me to offer her a solution and put an end to my sleep.
Here, the best way to safeguard your inner peace is not to respond to the problem. Someone is distracted; offer her another distraction in its place. As if nothing has fallen on my innocent ears, as if the light around me is the first thing I cognize, I utter, “Chai”. “Adrak, tulsi, aur kali mirch dalna.” Increasing the ingredients buys me time. But, tea that at other times refuses to come to a boil is served in a wink. Along with it comes newspaper and the headline reads: Army Chief goes to SC: When was I born? That's interesting! So, I avoid it. I choose to read boring stuff like business news to induce sleep.
No sooner I glide into oblivion, than the aloo starts striking this time in the company of doodh, adrak, and Vim liquid detergent. My wife raises no clamour. She only repeats. My mother used the same trick: "Uttoh, uttoh, utth jao, utth jao beta, uttoh...". My father expected that I respond to his wake up call like a fire fighter. But, these days, parents are very protective of their children. They sing a lullaby not only to put their child to sleep but also to wake him up. They whisper it into his ear. And, if that rogue does not respond for long and only babbles indistinctly, they feel they are guilty of interfering with his mental growth.
When the repetition got the better of me, I promised my wife, “Ten hours from now, your stores will be overflowing with aloo, dahi, haldi, mirchi, methi, lauki. D’mart is bang opposite Cybage. So, you don’t have to worry at all. Consider IT done.”
Five hours ago, I forgot my promise!
It is very cold in the evenings. Men sporting three unbuttoned holes on the shirt are in hibernation. On my way home, I take the road less travelled. On one side of the road, there’s open space till good distance and vegetation on the other. Riding home in the nipping cold, my body stiffens and assumes a cozy curvature from which it has to be disturbed when it gets a little too peculiar. Mostly, it’s the head which sinks into my neck and needs to be pulled up. Or, I overhang from my seat to one side and later, push my bulk back to the centre when some curious riders throw awkward glances at it. Leaving that road behind, I feel I am almost at the gate of my apartment.
I forget the dread of the chill in the evening when I curl up like a dog in my duvet in the morning. But, unlike a dog whose ears go up at the slightest noise, mine are pretty hardened to any sound then. Even the unfriendly alarm cannot break my resolve of sleeping those slumbrous extra ten minutes. It takes a nagging, a constant drumming over the ear to rouse me then.
It starts far away. It's yet a distant sound, “Aloo khatm ho gaye.” “Suno, aloo khatm ho gaye.” My instinct, though dormant, tells me that something inauspicious is reaching my ears. The sound becomes more distinct. The camera moves slowly from the villain’s boots upwards. I realize the villain is actually coming for me. That aloo is the aloo gone missing in the trolley basket in my kitchen. The messenger bringing the news is none other than my dearest wife. And, she expects me to offer her a solution and put an end to my sleep.
Here, the best way to safeguard your inner peace is not to respond to the problem. Someone is distracted; offer her another distraction in its place. As if nothing has fallen on my innocent ears, as if the light around me is the first thing I cognize, I utter, “Chai”. “Adrak, tulsi, aur kali mirch dalna.” Increasing the ingredients buys me time. But, tea that at other times refuses to come to a boil is served in a wink. Along with it comes newspaper and the headline reads: Army Chief goes to SC: When was I born? That's interesting! So, I avoid it. I choose to read boring stuff like business news to induce sleep.
No sooner I glide into oblivion, than the aloo starts striking this time in the company of doodh, adrak, and Vim liquid detergent. My wife raises no clamour. She only repeats. My mother used the same trick: "Uttoh, uttoh, utth jao, utth jao beta, uttoh...". My father expected that I respond to his wake up call like a fire fighter. But, these days, parents are very protective of their children. They sing a lullaby not only to put their child to sleep but also to wake him up. They whisper it into his ear. And, if that rogue does not respond for long and only babbles indistinctly, they feel they are guilty of interfering with his mental growth.
When the repetition got the better of me, I promised my wife, “Ten hours from now, your stores will be overflowing with aloo, dahi, haldi, mirchi, methi, lauki. D’mart is bang opposite Cybage. So, you don’t have to worry at all. Consider IT done.”
Five hours ago, I forgot my promise!
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