3rd March, '09
As I grew up, my summer vacations of many consecutive years were spent at my grandparents’. Every day of each vacation was marked by leisure and routine, one affording as much relaxation as the other. I would wake up each day to my grandmother bustling around in the kitchen, the smell of hot coffee wafting through the air, the sound of a crisp newspaper being methodically read and folded away page by page by my grandfather, and the sound of ‘ Vishnu Sahasranaamam’- a religious chant comprising of the 1000 names of Lord Vishnu, drifting from the transistor. By the time I would be out of bed and have brushed my teeth, a hot cup of ‘Horlicks’ would sit waiting for me at the dining table. My grandma would sit with me while I would drink my milk, either cutting vegetables, or cleaning out the rice, or performing some other such minor task. The idea was always to watch over me, so I would finish all of the milk. We would chat about this and that. She would tell me about my grandpa’s latest faux-pas and we would both giggle as he would try in earnest to justify himself. Then she would persuade me to go finish my bath.
The rest of the day carried on in the same fashion. My grandma finishing up her cooking and chores at the times she had scheduled for them during the day, amidst bits of conversation, laughter and story-telling. My grandparents and I would play Scrabble, or ‘Daaya-Katte’, an Indian game similar to Ludo every evening, before my grandma would begin cooking dinner. My grandpa and I would water the plants and pick the flowers for the next morning’s puja before we all ate our dinner and went to bed.
For many years when I would think back about the number of jobs my grandma used to accomplish in a single day, always with a cool mind, without ever a sign of a huff or a puff, I would be astonished. I wondered what kept her so composed, so calm, so satisfied. But lately, I have begun to feel the same calmness, the same composure when I am bustling about my house. The washing the cleaning, the cooking the dusting, they all give me peace. They give my hands something to do while my mind is musing over life’s happenings.
I like to clean my bathroom myself. A wretched job, though it seems, there are many advantages to doing it oneself. Amidst the water and suds, there is a feeling of infinite satisfaction, a feeling of bringing forth purity and cleanliness. Its mechanical nature is almost meditative so that once one has developed a method of doing it, the hands can work, while the mind contemplates. I have wrestled with many of my life’s truths standing next to the water closet. Many of my decisions have gotten cemented and many ideas have been born at that exact location. It is a place of great potential.
In the kitchen, I am constantly experimenting, or trying to better an experiment. A dash of this, a slice of that, a pinch of something else, and voila! I feel like an artist. My day is made. My self-esteem is soaring once more.
The more corners I get cleaned, the more dirt I accumulate, the more recipes I invent, the more satisfied my day is. But I wonder, if like my grandmother, I can ever do this every single day. I have my days of laziness you know, days on which no amount of filth can get me to budge from a book or my computer, days on which, two slices of bread and a fried egg are as artistic as I can get. Also, I have days when these chores seem like the useless drudgeries of life, diverting one away from one’s main purpose and occupation.
So, how did she do it, I still wonder? How did my grandma do it for so many years, never once, faltering, never once complaining? I doubt I’ll ever know, or feel the same way. However for the days that I do, I treasure my musings by the water closet.
