The Day

4th Nov. ’19

I have to either go down at 7.30, or send—throw—the keys down to S—. the accountant, S—  comes at 7.30 twice a week to work for two and a half hours. Hunched over his dark desk copying ledgers with a claw-like hand. I want to say. Actually, he’s broad shouldered and well built, never hunches, has had a special tubelight installed for himself so that he is always bathed in sharp light. I hate to interact with him and he gets away with doing practically nothing. So, today being Monday and the time being 7.30, I threw down the keys, and when I went downstairs a bit later he was glowing in the strong light, wasting his time. The two days he comes are days when I try to avoid, if not the whole office, at least the circle around his desk.

I decided to delve into my work instead. I plonked my bag on my desk and unpacked my laptop, notebook, pencil pouch, wallet, cheque books, keys, ilaychi dan, etc. and balanced my water bottle on the stand nearby. There was nothing to prevent my working. Except—my office felt awful! As if I was sitting in an empty warehouse or garage perched on a wooden chair at a bare table in the middle of litter. In fact, the office is full of almirahs, filing cabinets, wooden shelves, with cane furniture and warm blue and green curtains so there is no grounds for my feelings of discomfort. But who cares about rationality? The office did not agree with me and I was desperate to change it.

So I called the “male staff” available, namely Akash. I find it easy to kid around with him and we kidded around a bit. Rani, another joker, was sweeping and mopping, and joined in the fun. I would measure the width of the almirah (with my arm or foot), then roll my eyes and we would all spontaneously laugh. To move around a steel almirah full of heavy laptops and files seemed like a mountainous job for dear Akash to do. I was clowning because I was trying to decide which way the wind was blowing and how precisely to get my work done.

Akash needs a few words of explanation. He is a concave young man with a disarming smile, a curl of hair on his forehead and a serious gaze that meets yours to agree already with what you are saying before you may have said it. He wears a mask around his mouth and rolls up his pants when he cleans gutters and toilets, and looks like an oil painting. There is almost nothing he does that makes him come across as less than picturesque. Lately, there have been reports of his disagreeing with many people about several things, but never with me. He has also been ill and on medication. As a result he has rushed off in the middle of the day—dawai lene gaye hain (to get my medicine.) He has taken long naps in the forenoon and afternoon—dawai khane ke bad (after having my medicine.) He cannot lift anything heavy—kamzori ho gayi hai (I have become weak). The lifting anything heavy includes piles of leaves and garbage that he himself has swept together, a coil of water pipes left out, plastic chairs in the wrong place, and other lightweight things. It was from the sheer nervousness of asking Akash to shift a steel almirah that I was wasting time in the office this morning. Now, a good month after his illness, it seems he had us all hypnotised into thinking that we had to protect him and he did this today without so much as saying a word.

Meanwhile, Rani was prancing around wielding her broom and mop in every corner that was emptied of a cupboard or shelf. I can never forget that when she joined us as a domestic, she was a labourer who carried bricks on her head at construction sites. Over the years, she has played several roles here, including cook, healer, performer, guard, dog carer, and cleaner. There are several other roles she could probably also play in good time. Many think she should retire. I think her working will keep her young, and I also think that she is probably not older than me. I met her when I was around fifty. In the almost twenty years since, she has not changed much, as I suppose, I hope, I have not either, except that we are both more frail. She radiates an intelligence, a spontaneity, an imagination, and a desperate sort of grit that I cherish. We are more equal than the world realises.

One of the people who seriously proposes that she retire is A—, who was also in the office at the time, but studiously avoiding becoming part of the absurd proceedings. He can speak on the phone at one ear, then the other, type messages with one hand, then with the other, all while signing vouchers, driving, opening a drawer, or negotiating just about any transaction. His phone is his body and his soul. While I would set up my office, my desk, my shelf and my drawer to begin on my dozen jobs, he would swipe his phone a dozen times and be done with a dozen jobs.

I am afraid with him. We go on parallel lines in our approach to work and I desperately need to make these lines intersect since he is my second-in-command. He has the youth’s—being in his mid thirties—myopic view of political and cultural change, and his age’s impatience with being told of larger visions. He does not have the tolerance for extended analyses of the issues that preoccupy me. He is intelligent and banks on his intelligence to deliver. At the same time, he is humanitarian—a function of intelligence—; and sensitive—another function of intelligence—. He suspects something is important about what we are trying to do and achieve. But he is not fully, or even partially—hence my fear—in agreement with what it is.

But why afraid? Because, since the differences between us are so great, I would have to spend more time and resources than I have mustered so far into building bridges between us. We both want to achieve something excellent, being proud workaholics. We must be in agreement, however, with what that is. While this bridging is hammered together, I am simply afraid that the distances created by age, education, profession, not to say patriarchy and political consciousness, might also be getting extended, making our teamwork superficial.

After an hour of this-ing and that-ing, I decided I had to have a snack and also get help. I went and called Irfana and ate up one of our Cafe’s excellent cupcakes. Irfana matter-of-factly took charge and also applied her shoulders to the work. In less than an hour, the office had the shape I wanted. The almirahs were turned around, cupboards had been shifted, desks re-aligned, chairs exchanged, garbage thrown out. Now only some beautification of the walls remained and the inside of the almirahs and filing cabinets with their mis-named files. And plants. We must have potted plants everywhere. The air is disastrous.

We set off for Betawar and decided to first go to Chitauni.

Betawar and Chitauni are contiguous villages, separated by a nala, a seasonal stream or large rainwater drain that is a story in itself. Our school is in Betawar on, say, two acres, probably three. Our main land is in Chitauni across the nala, at least four or five acres. It is breathtakingly placed on the banks of the Ganga. When I had first observed it in 2007-8, I set my heart on it. The getting of it is a tale of How the West was Won, that is, of subterfuge, hard work, total commitment to the cause, and no thought for anyone or anything but the one goal in sight.

Having acquired that gem of a plot, and adding to it some more plots north and west—the river is on the east and Betawar and our school on the south—we have now for the past ten years been embroiled in challenge after challenge.

Today we saw: the wild grass, kasha (a name we were considering for our little Samira before she was born) has taken over most of the land and needs to be immediately dispatched with strong scythes and sickles. To walk through it was to get a slashing of sharp, flat needles. It was so tall in places that you could not see beyond.

The boundary wall towards the nala had collapsed at one point. The rainwater this year had been fierce and the stream curved in a way that cut into our land and carried away chunks of soil. The underside of our boundary had been eroded in many place, and here the pillars, the brick wall and the wire netting had simply tumbled down into the ditch.

We stared at the curves, not one, but two, that were particularly awful. In each there was a huge swath of cut earth as if a giant machine had scooped away the land and made it vanish.

Trees had been planted and we walked around studying how each one was doing. Of the thousand plus that were planted, maybe we saw a hundred, or even fifty. Some were standing up bravely and sweetly and we touched or spoke to them. Some were even a foot or more high and we applauded them. But many were lost in the kasha, or brown and withered, or had disappeared for whatever reason.

We saw the footprints and the dung of creatures, both cows (gai) and antelopes (nilgai—Boselaphus tragocamelus) and discussed how they leapt over the lower lying land clear over the boundary wall and very likely trampled some of the fledgeling trees.

We shook our heads. “We must have a guard. Now. Living here.”

We looked inside the cottage we had built, partly for ourselves, partly for the guard. The toilet still needs finishing. Some windows are missing panes and a couple don’t close because of defective plastering. Everything else is fine. We have a solar panel that works well, but its battery does not work. The wires are cut and the work is left incomplete. As far as I know, we have paid several tens of thousands for it already.

The two guards Sunil and Sandeep who don’t live there, who walked around with us, were in a world of their own. They did not know about the damage, the cows, the trees, and had no thoughts about the kasha. Another twosome to educate and train.

We left with thoughtful miens. On my part, I prefer to postpone my thinking for a later time and the night, though it’s true I also react violently on the spot, but only very very rarely. Certainly not today. Inspite of all the work ahead, and the accidents, and the huge expenditure past and future, the tall grass that defies destruction, the violent erosion by the water, and the absentee guard….I still could imagine the place with trees and walkways, gardens and scattered cottages.

Art and music.

Dance and theatre.

Writing and reciting.

Farming and animals.

Children and youth.

Family, friends….

Maybe still some nilgai….