Washing Machine

Was a tenant then! Rent and water are two very critical items in tenant tenure – all from practical experience. A tenant can only feel the essence. 2 BHK and a thin verandah was my rented possession. It took a few days to set the house in order and a few more months to call it my home. Life had just settled into the routine order of 9 to 6 on week days and a few relaxed fringes over the week end. By natural symbiosis the family of property owner had taken up a guardian role. I just had to be careful over the weekend as every ounce of water that I spilled to wash used to hit an unknown meter that came back as sweet notes from my undeclared guardian. I managed with a mixed bag of successful attempts or diligent acceptance of failure.

One fine Sunday morning, the greater half of the property owner knocked my door with a request. Being on the other side of the table and with very low asset power, what can follow is an unconditional yes to request from the owner. Don’t be scared it was just a real estate sharing proposal – that too with an energetic lifeless item. That morning I learnt his daughter worked for an electronic company in the city who offered employee’s parents a stock clearance gift. I was excited to see the odd size carton landed up on my verandah late in the evening.

I saw a Washing Machine so closely for the first time. It would be wrong to say I saw as it was mostly covered except for the careless openings of the carton here and there. Monday morning was a twofold realization. My verandah got even smaller and I was now a caretaker.

It was a new habit. I returned from office, to invariably see my power house sitting dormant watching the empty 2BHK from the holes of the carton. It was a guest for some more time and slowly synced into the list of my belonging list. The initial thought was my property owners’ daughter was about be married and my warehouse guest would follow her with the groom to wash all the unwanted.

But that was initial thought. Colors of life are not as easy to mix like the dye of textile. Neither is as easy to wash off the dirt and grease of mind to resume color guard promises while getting through a stain free and crease free swirl.

I took advantage. Turned the table and walked up to meet my renter. Offered decent proposal to own up my caretaker and move it from my verandah to the passage near the washroom. I had never waited so long to open up cartons that landed my home. He was bold grey with sharp blades and sturdy body. Empowered him and pressed the trendy buttons. I stood by him through his maiden journey. Dark in the night pegged the semi wet garments. For the first time the water meter missed sensing the water usage.

Gyan# 28 – Not all associations are planned, they happen when time desires.

Black Beauty

Valentine season was very compact at personal end, too many events and association. Yet before spring calls it off, jump started typing …

I used to call her ‘Bou’. In my mother-tongue it means married woman specially a newlywed woman. But for me Bou, was a proper noun rather than a common noun. She was dark in complexion, unassuming in looks, had a pair of bronze bangles which hardly had any glitter left, cheap earrings which hanged from ear lope holes which were unwantedly big. My visual sense always prompted that the color of her saree was invariably a mismatch. She was the first women in my life whom I have seen smoking so closely.

She had a family to support. She was the second wife to a man who had three children all from his first wife, which I came to know when she was no more around us and her soul was resting in peace. Her forehead used to be smeared with sindoor and the other asset of beauty was her brilliant white teeth.

Bou was my adult friend in childhood days. Holding on to her hands I had walked down the roadside mom & pop shops to buy bakery products. Her six senses knew my urge to buy colored chalks or marbles with the balance paisa.

Our community knew her as our family maid, but Bou was my childhood icon. Except for her smoking habits, I loved the complete package named Bou. She was a wife with open outlook, a working mother, a faithful employee. With time she introduced her next heir to my family and one morning I realized Bou has retired. Her frequency of visit became monthly and with age yearly. She climbed her journey of life from mother to mother-in-law, to grandmother and then …

I was in mid teens and was on toes preparing for board exams. One such spring noon returned from school to see Bou, sitting on our verandah and sobbing. Empathy was overflowing to see Bou with a clean forehead proclaiming she was a widow. I was growing and some odd rituals were sipping in the system. I rushed back to my room and brought back the glass jar of Horlicks – it had my collections of colored marbles. She hugged me and smiled for a change. The ageless friendship was as unique as the colored marble jar.

Years passed! I was stepping out of my town to embrace the big world and be better educated. Bou came to wish me for my journey ahead. She had hold on to my hand. Her rustic hands were very hard and her eyes had aspiration that she wanted me to achieve. Her wish list had hard and soft touch. We never meet again.

In this world of ours many such Bou, help build the society we live. On eve of International Woman’s day a heartfelt gratitude to all such women who nurture kids in their nuclear homes for the world of tomorrow.

Gyan #27 - Enjoy the bliss if you are a woman, if not hold her hands to be blissed.