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.