Old Age Excitement

“It is not working,” I murmured. 

Wait for some time, it will,” Rani murmured back. 

We had been in bed for some time. Perhaps for an hour, perhaps more.  

Our bed is about a foot away from a thin, ordinary glass pane. On the other side, about twenty feet apart, runs a road. A speed breaker adorns the road at a strategic angle from our flat. Vehicles apply brake when they are bang opposite our window, releasing a high decibel screech that hovers in the air for several seconds. Many vehicles, especially lorries carrying gas cylinders, fail to decelerate sufficiently, resulting in generation of a cacophony of sorts as they jump over the speed breaker. Exposed to the madness for four years, I can distinguish the type of each vehicle with a fine degree of accuracy from just the sound of its screech. 

The street noise is ever present in different avatars. As the traffic thins down at night, screeches transform into all pervading wails. Torturing of a silencer-less engine with high acceleration, siren of an ambulance, nocturnal roll-call of dogs, tick-tock of the wall clock, running of the condensing unit of the split air-conditioner in the hyper store below – even the start-stop cycle of the compressor of the refrigerator near the kitchen – my ears are attuned to appreciate all input and convert it into information useful for the brain but quite useless for me. 

Something was missing that night. The comforting sound of the refrigerator. I never knew that I had unknowingly analysed it so well. It started with a ‘tuck’, followed by the harmony produced when water enters a half-filled cistern, signing off with a small thud with a unique echo. 

I had not heard a single cistern filling sound that night, except for the occasion when I had actually used the loo.  

A bad omen. Had our refrigerator hit the bucket? 

When you are married to the same person continuously for as many years as I have been, you do not start your conversation from the beginning. You approach the topic at any point. It saves time and the effort invested in speaking. For example, there is no need to elaborate that while your newspaper has not been delivered, and while your neighbour blissfully sleeps, his newspaper rots in front of his door, throwing at you an excellent opportunity to indulge in undisclosed co-operation. I just tell Rani, “Uska Le Lo (Take his)”. She returns within two minutes beaming a smile, the newspaper in her hand. 

She must have been asleep, but perhaps her brain was also recording the absence of the refrigerator sound. She said, “It happens. Do not worry, it will start.” 

The disadvantage of studying engineering is that you know more about certain things. ‘Tuck’ must always be followed by the water-gushing-in-the-cistern sound. A solo tuck is worse that your friend not bringing his ravishing wife along when calling on you. 

I struggled to catch sleep. My ears struggled to catch the reassuring gurgle of the gas flow. Fifteen minutes passed. I got up. The stabiliser was on. I opened the refrigerator door. The inside lamp was on. I flicked the switch off and on, tugged at the wires, kicked the compressor. The appliance remained unresponsive like a government official. 

No point in waking up Rani, I thought, going back to the bed. Two minutes elapsed. Rani got up. I heard the sound of the switch being flicked, the refrigerator door being opened, Rani saying something to herself. 

“Inform the mechanic who repaired our water heater some months ago,” I said.  

Satisfied that the refrigerator had conked off, we soon fell asleep. 

“Should I call up the mechanic?” asked Rani.  

It was about seven in the morning. The mechanic looked young. Young people stay in bed longer. Considering the outside chance that the mechanic would have gotten up by now, he might be busy with his morning ablutions, I thought.  

Rani read my thoughts. “I will call him at 7:30,” she declared. 

Half an hour later, she announced, “He does not repair refrigerators.”  

Finally a mechanic was arranged. He declared that the refrigerator was dead, but could be brought back to life with a replacement of the compressor and filling of gas, the entire exercise costing five thousand bucks. The news was conveyed to me over phone. 

“Five thousand? Wouldn’t it be better to invest seven thousand more and buy a brand new fridge?” I recalled buying a double-door fridge at twelve thousand three years ago. 

We celebrated Christmas fridge hunting.  

The fridge section of Big Bazaar displayed various kinds of footwear. Rani started examining the displays in a manner that is so natural to a woman. She even started enquiring about a specific type of sandal I have been walking in for four years, and located a sufficiently ugly pair.  

“But haven’t we come to look for a fridge?” I protested.

“Fridge Kahan Hain?” she asked an employee. 

“We have only one fridge,” pat came the reply.  

I can appreciate statements such as “I have only one husband”, but a store keeping only one fridge was beyond my imagination. 

The good thing was, rather than spending the allocated forty-five minutes, we ticked off Big Bazaar in five minutes.  

The bad thing was, we reached E Zone a full fifteen minutes before its standard opening time.  

The pep talk at E Zone extended fifteen minutes beyond the opening time. Employees attending the pep talk glanced at us standing outside the half-down shutters, and continued their session, ending it with a chorus of “Come what may, day by day, I will get better and better”. 

We walked to the row of neatly arranged refrigerators, looking at the price tags. An employee who had just become better asked what it was that we were looking for. It was pretty sensible. In old days a refrigerator was advertised with a penguin. We were looking for the penguin, the better salesman might have suspected.  

We walked out – the price range was much above the twelve thousand mark. 

The third stop of the day was Girias. The shop had about fifty refrigerators lined up. We began the inspection of the price tags.  

“The prices are similar to those at E Zone,” I told Rani. 

The salesman interjected, “No, no, these prices are just indicative. Talk to the manager and bargain!” 

Bargaining price down from Rs.17,500 to Rs.12,000 is beyond our declared or hidden talents. We looked at each other, defeated but not destroyed and definitely determined to resume the hunt at a fourth place. 

The fourth place, Classic, and the fifth, Shree Electronics, proved it beyond doubt that no double door fridge can be purchased in India at a price below Rs.17,500.  

Giving up is for cowards. “Examine the seller to the sellers tomorrow,” I told Rani.  

Metro sells to sellers. I have seen Metro advertisements of 40% discount on refrigerators. Why twelve thousand, at such discount a fridge of Rs.17,500 can be had for Rs.10,500, I surmised. 

By the next afternoon we knew that there was no difference between the prices at Metro and elsewhere. 

“One last try. We will visit Sai Galaxy today, and if nothing materialises, we will get the refrigerator repaired,” we agreed. 

Forty-five minutes of bargaining at Sai Galaxy, and the price did not move even a bit below Rs.17,500. And then, a non-salesman type employee whispered something to the owner. 

“You can have a Videocon refrigerator at Rs.14,500. If you exchange your existing refrigerator, you will have to pay Rs.13,500,” said the owner, almost apologetically. 

“Videocon?!!” After the Sharps, Panasonics, Samsungs and LGs, Videocon appeared to be a very poor choice. 

“Show it,” we said reluctantly. 

The carton was opened. A shiny maroon refrigerator with floral pattern emerged. It was a double door, frost free refrigerator, no doubt. The price printed on the carton read Rs.15,999. The date of manufacture was November 2013.  

I looked at Rani. 

“We have to use it only for three years. Even though it is Videocon, it should not fail within three years,” Rani said. 

“It carries a 5-year warranty on compressor, and a one year warranty on the remaining items,” added the salesman. 

“Le Lete Hain (Let us buy it),” we said in unison.

An hour later, the fridge stood near the kitchen. The old fridge was gone, after providing us with old age excitement.

When It Rains, It Pours!

We had to drive to the airport. The sky looked overcast.

“Why not carry umbrellas, just to be on the safer side?” I asked. The suggestion appeared to be naive. Mere presence of clouds does not guarantee showers, as intelligence is not guaranteed on mere possession of the brain.

The car had a big boot. We placed the luggage, dumping two umbrellas alongside. The space still available was enough to accommodate two fat pigs, but we had none. We shut the boot close, and started.

The two most competent authorities on cinema in the family – Nitasha and Rani – started debating on whether a particular person in a TV commercial was Ranbir Kapoor. Rani was sure that it was him. Nitasha was equally sure that it was not Ranbir.

Halfway, Anupam blurted out, “It has started.”

But the debate had started much earlier! I was even enjoying it, silently regretting my inability to contribute towards it in a meaningful manner. My television-watching being restricted to orang-utan pranks and ‘Monkey Thieves’ kind of shows was putting me at a severe disadvantage.   

 Anupam pointed towards the windscreen. When I drive I make it a point to look at the windscreen, but somehow the droplets of water had escaped my attention. They were too small to be noticed by my eyes. I am normally busy at scheming about protecting the car from the onslaught of heavy vehicles and earth moving machinery. Those around me are busy scheming about protecting them from my car. So much of scheming leaves little scope for noticing tiny objects, even if they are right in front of my nose.

The pitter-patter soon transformed into heavy splats. The lone wiper tried valiantly to cope up, succeeding little. Vehicles started cutting across little lakes, splashing water with gusto. Had I not been in a hurry, I would have perhaps driven slowly, enjoying the scene. But we had a flight to catch. I continued driving at a steady 75 kmph.

The parking ticket vending machine had acquired a blackhead. It’s top had been covered with a black garbage disposal. Only, it was not for garbage disposal but to protect the machine from water. An attendant stood next to the machine, handing out tickets.

We parked. The rain reduced to a light drizzle. We walked towards the entrance under the umbrellas. A jhappi here and a jhappi there, and Anupam and Nitasha walked in. Rani and I remained glued to the glass wall of an unoccupied cabin, watching them till they could not be seen any more.

Sad, almost defeated, we walked towards the car. In a matter of half an hour the scene had changed. The rain had vanished, and so had the daylight.

I started driving. Within five minutes we were off the flyover, negotiating half constructed walls and pillars, water-filled ditches, steel girders, and multiple diversions due to the giant flyover underway.

The rains came again, and very forcefully. The wiper became ineffective even at the top speed. Opaque spots formed over the windscreen, making it impossible to see through them. Absence of streetlamps compounded the problem of poor visibility. Very often I had to drive in complete darkness, not sure whether the car was still over the road. Just another degree of turn to the steering wheel, and the car would have toppled after climbing on the divider, or dashed against a wall on the curb side. This continued for about half-an-hour.

Luckily, nothing untoward happened. We reached home safely. It was perhaps a new lease of life, but there was nothing to cheer about. The children had gone, the nest was empty!

We looked at each-other, and reached for the phone. We had to talk to the children!         

The Destitute

I keep Sundays reserved for outings. No, not those outings that one normally associates with the word. Every Sunday gives me an opportunity to visit the Reliance Green store to buy vegetables. Once through with the vegetables, Rani enters the fish store, while I climb down the stairs and kill time. Not only is the fish store too crowded, the stench is offensive, and the lone worker has no sense of urgency.

 

It was the same this Sunday. I walked down the stairs, which led to an about four feet wide pavement.

 

A brown and white dog was peacefully sleeping in a corner. I wonder why dogs come in such limited shades. They are white, black, or brown, or a combination of any of these colours. In other words, there cannot be more than seven ways in which your dog can appear – pure white, pure brown, pure black, white-brown, white-black, brown-black, or white-brown-black! It is good that dogs cannot see many colours, and therefore are not aware of this limitation.

 

The particular dog was rather thickset. By human standards, it was slightly older than I am. But it was very different from me - it appeared to have no worry in the world. I went close to the dog. Deep in sleep with eyes completely closed, it dropped its purplish tongue on the floor and licked it. The experience was evidently good. It licked again, and then again, without opening eyes or showing any other sign of being awake. It was the first time I had ever seen a dog performing this trick. And mind you, my childhood was spent with many dogs. True, one can learn everyday.

 

The odour of maida being deep fried diverted my attention. It emanated from a nearby shack selling cheap food. The owner sat on a counter, reading newspaper. Two employees doubled up as chef and maître d'hôtel, handling customers and cooking implements with the same callousness. At the exact moment they were busy deep frying puris.

 

A man, almost transfixed, stood in front of the shack. His clothes were dirty. The shirt, which might have been white once upon a time; was black and brown. The trousers were khaki. The hair was tousled up; the beard had not been attended for days. He was a picture of poverty.

 

The man moved his right hand into the shirt’s front pocket. I could see a glimpse of a ten rupee note. He pushed the note back, but did not move. The sight of puris getting puffed in hot oil was perhaps too tempting for him. He moved his right hand again, this time to his hip pocket. I am not sure whether he had a little fortune hidden there as well. Two minutes passed. The chef-cum-maître d'hôtel looked at him. The man once again thrust his hand in the front pocket, extracting the ten rupee note.

 

The money was faithfully deposited in the drawer of the counter. The owner did not move his eyes up from the newspaper. Some minutes passed. The man stood waiting, his eyes never leaving the kadai. More minutes passed. Finally, the chef-cum-maître d'hôtel packed two puris and some curry in a polythene bag.

 

If accepting the bag was a pain, transferring it into the other hand was an ordeal. The destitute had an empty polythene bag in his left hand, and for some reason did not want to dispense with it. He tried to slip the newly acquired bag inside this bag, but could not. His left hand, and for that matter, his left leg was paralysed. He tried again, failing yet again. He had to try for about five minutes before he could complete the task. Now came the turn of picking up his stick and another polythene bag from the pavement. It was obvious that he could not bend like an ordinary person. He punished himself for several minutes before succeeding in picking up the stick and getting ready to move.

 

During the entire effort he never looked anywhere except at the bags or at the stick. I thought of placing some money in his pocket. I looked back. Rani was coming down. I looked at the man. He had turned his back towards me, and had started walking. He stumbled, steadied himself, and resumed walking, very slowly.

 

Rani and I walked briskly towards the car, the parcel of fish secure in her hand.