To learn to labour and to hang on

Looking out the window of my bedroom, I can see the wayside tea stall sort of leaning against a compound wall. Not very hygienic, what with all the dust stirred up by the wind, and maybe with even dried cow-dung particles afloat in the air.

But in spite of it all, the chai wallah seems to be doing good business. What fascinates me is the way he holds the glass of tea, high over his shoulder, and a second glass, low down at the knees, and pours the tea from one glass to another, repeating the process and then banging the glass tumbler on the counter, as bubbles froth atop the tea.

Taking a leaf from his book, I tried to do it. But what I got for my trouble was a table with pools of tea on it, like puddles in the rain, and only half the tea left in the glass. Well, I realised this feat was not quite my cup of tea.

I cannot sing to save my life, nor sew on a button properly. Nor can I make a perfect bull’s eye in the kitchen: the yolk wouldn’t stay at the centre, but would slide to the side. My bull’s eye would look more like a bull that got it in the eye, or a circus clown with a sideways grin.

Talking of eggs, how does one time a half-boiled egg, and what makes my dosas recalcitrant imps, sticking to the tava like Casabianca to the burning ship? After poking and prodding, they come out in bits and pieces.

Why can’t a cork that I try to pull out with a cork screw, behave itself and come out properly, instead of going right in? And why does a poori that I try to roll out in a round shape, refuse to conform, and look like an outline map of Australia?

Nor are my travails confined to the kitchen alone. When I try to basket a ball into the hoop, why does it have to make its own choice, and go right out of the court? And when we play a game of rummy, and it is my turn to deal, why can’t I do it, as to the manor born? I don’t have the dexterity, nor do I know the tricks of the trade.

I have watched others dealing the cards in the wink of an eye. By the time I finish with it, many an eye will be closed with vexation and many may be cursing under their breath. Maybe I do take an unholy length of time, and maybe I sometimes deal extra cards as well. But putting me on the mat for it, is surely not quite cricket.

Maybe some day I will get the hang of it all and learn the ropes, as they say. Didn’t H.W. Longfellow conclude his famous poem with the words — still achieving, still pursuing? Learn to labour and to wait.

An abode remembered

I don’t think I will ever again get to go back to that quiet and serene place nestled amidst the Anamalai Hills in Tamil Nadu.

From the plains below we took a bus, which kept climbing slowly. Looking out the window, all that one saw were trees and bushes, and estates with interesting names such as Shamrock, Lockinvar, Paradisa, Waterfalls… There were hardly any shops, barring a few ramshackle ones.

Neither, it seemed, were there any people around. No streets teeming with humankind. No traffic whizzing past. Was this No Man’s Land? The back of beyond?

And like will-o-the-wisps, doubts assailed my mind. Here I was, a new bride, my newly made husband by my side. I stole a glance at him. He bore a serious look. I wondered, what do I know of him (an arranged marriage, you see). What if he is a blue beard, taking me on a journey with no return? Here in this deserted land, who would ever know?

I almost shivered at the thought — and just then he took his coat and put it on my shoulder. “Feeling cold?” he asked gently, and my silly fear died down. I knew I was safe in his hands.

But I am digressing. I was half asleep by the time we reached cinchona territory. And then, climbing two stone steps, I came face to face with the house, where I would be spending a part of my youth.

A cute little grey stone house, with a chimney over the slated roof. A fireplace with a mantle shelf over it. A bedroom, a sitting room, a kitchen-cum-dining room, and a bath. Not a mansion. Not a palace, but a humble abode. And the onus of making it a home will lie on my shoulder. For a moment I closed my eyes and prayed I should meet the challenge. Home is where the heart is. Would I be able to make it a home?

Well, a challenge it was. Getting my bearings, learning to cope, adapting to the solitude, after my husband left for his work in the quinine factory. Here in this silent ambience, amidst trees and rocks and a blanket of quietude, I was hoist with my own petard.

The silence was overpowering, Monotonous? Alone in the hills, with the whisper of a breeze in my hair, and fresh air in my chest, did I get a feeling of well-being? A realisation that a human being is never alone. That a supreme power, albeit unseen, is always there beside you? This is the charm of solitude. A sublime feeling. Why call it loneliness?

And so we lived there. Let me not forget the bird cry that woke me up in the morning. What bird was it, I know not. But I haven’t heard that sort of cry anywhere else.

I wonder if that same sparkling stream, like a white ribbon, still flows down the mountainside. Do the workers in the quinine factory still wend their way home, with a conical sack over their heads? Does the siren still sound twice from the factory, calling those workers to duty and relieving them in the evening. Or for that matter, does the very factory still exist at all?

The odds are that if I go back there, after so many years have passed, the factory will not be there. Nor will my grey walled house. But will my nostalgic mind, bring back the ghost of my former self — a young pretty girl, with not a wrinkle on her face? A girl who simply braved it out on those forlorn hills?