Little mistakes

I was tidying my stuff on another Sunday when my eyes went searching for the third red blob on the bed. Now where is it? No, it’s not on the sidelines of the bed or underneath the cot. I checked them both. Believe them, they are a disciplined lot, their geometrically distorted spherical shape is not designed for rolling.

I had got the three of them when I went on my Saturday’s routine walk , this time to the vegetable market. These Saturday strolls are something I look forward to in the entire week. It is there that I spotted them , all decked up in a cane basket. I handpicked 5 of them and reluctantly gave back 2, when I heard the prevailing market rate. So my count can’t be incorrect. Now, I always have a fascination for these red balls: the pomegranates and not so much to them as to their mother : the tree that produces this wonderful fruit. If I was one from the flora family , I would have definitely married one from their breed. The lovely, slender leaves shine in the morning sun as if generously oiled. They look their sunday best on the day after a substantially heavy rain , the droplets clinging on to the plant as a lover reluctant to leave his sweetheart after a memorable night. Once upon a time, my only aim in life was to grow a pomegranate tree , see it growing from childhood to womanhood and then I want it to live forever: for all the coming generations to see right before their eyes, that there are other better living objects than humans < I still carry the dream. A word of caution for my employers here: Now, this's the lighter side of me, please don't be fooled by all this. I still want salary hikes and promotions >

Coming back to reality I am sure that someone has stooped low enough to steal it. Now this is not something that I can forgive, kidnapping a helpless ball of seeds. On the breakfast table, I brought the matter to Madhu , who is the housekeeper of this place < whereas Khadoos cooks >, that someone is cultivating this hobby of thieving. As is expected from her, she enquired about the matter and shamefully though , I said what I lost. I was honest when I said that I lost only one of them. She looked at me with surprise and an undecipherable mix of some other emotion, which I am yet to learn. She might not be having a record of a girl from a well-to-do family who keeps count of her fruits. As scoffed by Khadoos, I came back and checked my Poms for ‘sprouted legs’. No, they haven’t

A few minutes later, Madhu came hurriedly and kept the abducted fruit on the table. “ Did I not tell you that it might have rolled into the curtains that I have unbuttoned for cleaning..?” , came the gingerly explanation.

I would have loved the Poms more if they could indeed sprout legs to run away from my abundance to her paucity.

The Intercity Express : Never say never

The lady embarked on the quaint little town of Palakkad. She took a seat near the window, directly opposite to where he was sitting. He has just finished reading a copy of ‘India Today’ and was drinking in the environs. He , a handsome young man in his mid-twenties. And the lady is of some indeterminate age, but not less than a 45 . All your assumptions about age goes wrong with middle-class Indian housewives. Most of them look much older than their age. Can I take the mean of my intuition and the established reality and  peg it at 40? A pleasant faced lady , with their head clad with the end of her saree, which constantly falls off to reveal her hair, slick with oil. She sat there nursing her arthritic legs.


Now, another important thing with the middle class Indian is that they don't hesitate to strike up conversations with any stranger they meet on the road. They don't give a damn about how you look or speak; and there need not essentially be a subject to speak about, anything mundane can do.


“Going to Tirupur, that’s where we are put up”, she smiled.


He smiled ; He did not really mind her going anywhere; nor was he interested in her whereabouts


But she thought it necessary to explain her appearance in Palakkad , “we have one house here, it is let to a family. I come here every month to collect the house rent and this Intercity express takes me back home”.


He smiled again , he did not have a problem with that either.


“Those people are very good, our tenants” , she exclaimed to his monosyllabic reciprocations. “ Their parents are both long dead, and the family is now left with only their son and daughter”. “ And the girl is a darling, she is beautiful ”


“ Now my husband is a Patani, you know them, the ones speaking Hindi...?" He says that we will get her married once we find a good guy


Now another light nod of the head. Cant he speak, I thought. But what?


The woman continued, “ She’ll get a good husband, she is beautiful, those wide eyes…”


Now they are also Nairs, like you , son.


The train was decelerating, whistling loud and clear. And before she could say anything more, he readied himself and clutched the bag as the train was nearing Coimbatore,
And shortly with a “Namaskaram”  , he walked away


She looked at me sheepishly as if her daily bread was snatched by a cunning crow, in a swish, silently diving high from skies. I gave a reassuring nod < Better luck next time , lady>


Back to present, I remember my good friend Akash asking me, “ how is a village better than a city, Shree?” , Now this is my answer my friend. Along with the quietness of the  mornings and the cacophony of chirpy birds, its these people who relish their lives with a  feeling of contentment that they work to better the lives of their neighbours that I miss in the city.


Every city needs a few of them : people with nothing to preoccupy their minds, no surrounding bubbles and no fences separating the houses