In the afternoon they came unto a land

In which it seemed always afternoon

All round the coast the languid air did swoon

Breathing like one that hath a weary dream

 Tennyson—The Lotus Eaters 

I awaken, it has not been a long departure, and the day is still pubescent! I look out of the window; the sun is not high, but the shadows are being trampled upon. The garden is bald, but a little green hedge still survives. Nourished by a rusted and rarely used garden tap, that leaks, an almost invisible stream flows into a hollow, nourishing weeds and birds alike. Bevies of sparrows descend on that trough – their river, content in play until a cat appears. Only a single hibiscus plant in bloom remains well-tended too, as its withering would be considered rather inauspicious.

The once crimson turnstile used as a merry-go-round by generations of children leans dangerously to one side. Beyond it is the street; partly dug up, partly paved and always crowded with iron-lunged hawkers chaffering with equally boisterous customers. If you cared to look a little further, you would not miss the broken stonewall that encloses a rather unflattering three-storied structure. 

This unsightly structure in various stages of degradation is also the arena for a phenomenon that I have had to bear with on a regular occurrence. My overcurious neighbour leaves the compound of the very same building through a wicket gate. We exchange glances, many glances. Her eyes search for a hint of nakedness, she is surprised to see me in shorts, I generally herald dawn in a towel. I switch-off the fan, the sparrows are thankful as they use the bedroom as a playhouse. Waking up is a ritual with me, it should be as they are many people who never wake up… I let a loud yawn escape into the street. I am not flatulent, which is sad, for farting is a better way to greet a dead day. I am mesmerised by the dancing shadow of a Jambul tree, its movement, imitated by a Tulsi plant that thrives in its shadow.

The doorbell rings, I do not bother to open it, those who are expected, know that they will find it open. The stack of papers is placed in correct sequence on the edge of my dining table. The newspaper boy knows that I bear an animosity towards the Times. The Times is crushed under the weight of its opponents. He is a fast learner, but I hate his face; it is nothing to do with his looks. I have always suspected that he has twenty more teeth than the average human being does. Ever smiling white teeth that shine like flashbulbs.  

The Express and a Wills cigarette keep me company in the loo; I have not bothered to replace the two panes above my porcelain throne. My dasypygal behind would still be open to public scrutiny and debate if not for the Bel tree that hides my immodesty. The front door is pushed open with a thud that threatens the very foundation of my building. Ratan Bai has arrived! She destroys the sanctity of my temple with her tempestuousness. She knocks violently, “Baba Chacha ki Coffee” A low grunt escapes me, which spells coffee. I scan through the headlines; bird flu is jumping to humans. I have to be careful not to cross my neighbour’s path, she is parrot-nosed, and her hair (which looks like it is desperately trying to run away) resembles crest feathers of wildfowl. Abdul Kalam is busy propagating his myth about the interlinking of rivers. The honourable ex-president may be very good at sending rockets into space, but his knowledge of geography is a little limited. ‘Shiva’ the lone male rhino, confined to a thousand square feet cage is lonely; zookeepers are trying to find him a mate. I should send Ratan Bai. I visualize the act and laugh. Imagine a love-smitten Rhino and Ratan Bai making love. She will kill Shiva… Imagine what their babies will look like. Human babies with horned appendages instead of noses. The roar of the flush and the hiss of the kettle are a simultaneous occurrence. 

 It is time to work; a bath can wait. I scan through the remaining papers. The same bloody stories. I am ambidextrous; with a toothbrush in my left, I switch on the laptop. Let me first acquaint you with the Feng Phooie of the hall. Light yellow walls, a low table that serves as both bookshelf and shoe rack. The table also supports the boob tube. The diabetic’s curse occupies a niche near the door, it purrs and hums like a cat trying to imitate Marlon Brando. A cluttered dining table with legs buckled like an old mule, supports an enormous number of borrowed books’ Two cots; one pushed against the window, the other lies perpendicular to its right edge. The tamarind tree in front of our window supports an astonishing eco system, complete with crapping crows, chirping sparrows, screaming parakeets, talkative mynas and the occasional kite that swoops down upon a lazy rodent. Beyond that there are some scenes that are visible and some that are a fragment of my fertile imagination.  I prefer the latter, as I can create my own film show. If you look beyond the foliage of this particular tree, you can observe the cobbled street that connects the two parallel main roads. Always full of people, honking cars, the cacophony of overfed dogs and local gossip; I ignore the sights and sounds and descend into a trance.

I try to look beyond the realm of urban existence... The show commences: Naked tribes dancing in the light of a bonfire under a diamond-studded sky. Hungry children dying like flies, Scrofulous flies in high office that that have developed a taste for human suffering. They ought to be swatted, eradicated, but the entire system suffers from malversation. The eidetic storyteller, his little brain covered by a deeply furrowed exterior, still has the strength to chant about his people, their torments, and their stories in passing. His sacred cane and agate tchotchkes waiting their turn to be inherited by youthful hands. Hands capable of ushering in change, he wails in grief, he chants his own threnody, there are no young men in his village now, those who are left, don’t have hands.

The show ends, scarred by my thoughts, I force myself to awaken, it is late afternoon. I need a cold shower. I exit in a thin towel and greet the street with a song. It is Saturday; my neighbours half-day at work. The poor deprived thing, she looks at me as a child would look at the window display of an ice cream parlour on a very hot afternoon. Should I greet her with a full-monty, or a flying kiss? There she is, one eye focussed on the road, one focussed sharply on me. I owe her this immodesty. I drop the towel; her smile turns into a scowl when she sees the shorts.    

Sunil Vaidyanathan May 2005