All in a Day’s Order
The Delhi winter was upon us.
There was an initial lull of cloudless skies and only the occasional fog. The parents, in deference to their Pahari genes, observed disparagingly how warm it was. But as interminable days of no sunshine, bone-chilling winds and clammy aspect set in, they suddenly felt the cold.
The subject of the weather naturally came up in telephone conversations with my brother, Vivek, in Mumbai — as in all conversations with anyone. “The weather bureau has forecast a severe cold wave all over North India”, Papa told us over the phone. We had been exchanging notes about the plummeting temperature, each convinced that their respective house was more of an ice-box than the other. “And one of our heaters has stopped working”, he continued. “I have asked Vivek to order an oil radiator. He’s used to online purchases.”
“Does Mummy know?” I asked.
Mummy has a more than average dislike to what she calls ‘cluttering up the house’. This covers a fairly broad canvas. Anything that can, is promptly returned from whence it came. Or if it can’t, then invariably it comes our way, since we are closest at hand. Caps, clothes, gifts, savouries from the local market that an impressionable Papa is lured into buying, tiffin-boxes and vessels in which we are wont to take across occasional food items and special Bengali sweets, the bags they are taken in —- and sometimes what is contained in the tiffins too! Even Papa’s walks or visits to the local market are a daily source of trepidation. “Anytime he goes out, he comes back with a bag full of something or the other,” she complained. Consequently, we or anyone who makes an entry with any bag of any sort that may potentially contain anything, is regarded with utmost suspicion.
Vivek, as an ideal consumer, inhabits the other end of the spectrum. He believes in shopping often and comprehensively — not just for himself, but also for friends and immediate and extended family. And especially for the parents, for whom things arrive with nonchalant frequency — carried in breezily by him when he is visiting the NCR, and delivered by courier when he is not. Like Newton’s Third Law, an equal and opposite reaction ensues from Mummy each time.
That very evening, he called up from Mumbai. In passing, he mentioned that he had ordered two oil radiators for the parents. “Two”! I exclaimed. “I thought they wanted one? They already have one working radiator”.
“They should have one in every room”, he replied dismissively. “What's the point of shivering? They’ll be delivered tomorrow.”
Foreseeing some fireworks, I enquired if Mummy Papa were aware that they were getting two for the price of one, as it were. “I’ll let Papa know”, answered Vivek. And what of Mummy, I thought. Who will bell the cat?!
Not unexpectedly then, I got a call from Papa the very next day.
“Anisha”, he announced, “Vivek has sent two radiators and we don't have any space to keep them. Mummy is very upset. It's best if you take one.”
“That’s a bit much, considering he has just ordered them especially for you! You've been saying you have been feeling the cold even inside the house”, I reminded him.
But it seemed that Papa had made up his mind. “We have kept one in each bedroom. We don’t need any more. You take one; it will be useful in your house.”
“We also have an oil radiator”, I protested. “And we don’t feel so cold.”
“Doesn't matter, you can keep it in the other bedroom,” he pronounced with finality, adding that he had already spent all morning trying to unpack and assemble one. “I can't get the wheels on,”he continued in an aggrieved tone. “I have asked Bhimraj, the electrician, to come. When will you be able to pick the other one up?”
A little later, an agitated Mummy called up. “Oh, please take the radiator,” she said without any preamble. "As it is, there are so many things in the house. I am black and blue with knocking into something or the other.”
“You have to walk more carefully,” I advised. “Don’t rush about the house. And there should be no problem in putting it in the study-room, where Papa watches TV? Since that’s at one end of the house, out of the way of your normal circuit, it should be fine there.”
“How come he doesn't seem to feel cold when he's outside? He’s going for golf every morning,” she countered, side-stepping the main point with customary practice.
There seemed to be no answer to that, so I parried the question, hoping to delay things till she got used to having three radiators in their house.
It seemed there wasn’t much chance of that happening. A stream of suggestions followed from the other end of the phone. “Maybe you can present it to somebody?” Mummy went on. ”A friend’s anniversary? A wedding you have to go for? When will you come?”
The next day, in reply to the same query from Papa, I suggested they put it in their dining room for the time being. But it seemed there was no room anywhere for the radiator — or for any more discussion.
“We have put it there for the moment. But we only sit there for ten minutes or so. Ask Snehanshu to find some time to come and pick it up while the weather's still cold. Otherwise, it will be no use.”
“Vivek won’t be pleased,” I said again. “He ordered them for you.”
“Oh, but we are keeping both the ones he has sent”, he replied, with unassailable logic. "We are sending our old one to you!”
——————-
It was the following Sunday, a couple of days after Papa Mummy’s old radiator had been ensconced in our house. The phone rang at 7:45 am in the room, where Treya, in celebration of it being a non-college day, was sleeping the sleep of the just and the free. I ran to pick it up. It was Papa. In response to my “Good morning”, he said: “Anisha, Mummy needs your help urgently!”
Naturally concerned, I enquired in alarm what had happened.
Fortunately, it was just an extravagant turn of phrase. “You know,” he began. “We had asked Vivek to order some cut jackfruit and some dry fruits. He has also sent lots of other things with them. Sprouts and corn and red radish and cut-methi and much more. Mummy says she can't handle all these. You please take some. And don't order any vegetables for yourself for some days.”
“All right”, I said. “We will be coming in any case this evening for dinner —“
But it seemed they would not last till evening! We were asked to come and take them in the morning.
I was still in the midst of relating the newest episode of the online shopping saga to Snehanshu, when the phone rang again.
It was Mummy this time. “The entire lobby is full of packets of things we don't eat, all with an expiry date of tomorrow. There are at least twenty-five. About four big packets each of walnuts and almonds and pistas! And little-little packets of sprouts of different kinds! Oof, my back is aching with unpacking and sorting them. And you know Papa, he had as usual bought so much stuff — vegetables and dals. Our fridge is already overflowing. “
“And then Vivek sent all this,” she began again. “Sprouts and what not. And a big carton of eggs! Please take them. When are you coming?”
“It's only eight in the morning!”, I said. “Sometime after breakfast?”
Fortunately, that seemed to pacify her. “All right. And please tell Vivek not to order so much for us.”
That evening, Mummy, slightly mollified by the fact that some perishable items had been duly collected by Snehanshu during the day, began afresh. “You know, Papa saw an advertisement in the paper that there is a sale of dry fruits at Big Bazaar. He asked Vivek to order some for us. And Vivek instantly ordered — from Big Basket!”
“Along with I don’t know how many other things — sprouts, corn, eggs, dal — and a huge number of dry fruits. And it was delivered at the crack of dawn, everything in bags within bags of plastic. I thought I would go crazy.”
“But Big Basket doesn’t use unnecessary plastic,” spoke up Snehanshu. “They are quite responsible. We order from them too.”
“No, no, not Big Basket. Milk Basket,” said Papa. “Milk Basket are the people who send us milk every morning.”
“They deliver all this too,” asked Snehanshu, surprised.
“They deliver everything,”declared Papa serenely.
“And it's all from Bombay,” said Mummy.
“Bombay?” We all piped up. “Chopped kathal and methi from Bombay?”, asked Snehanshu in disbelief.
“Yes, it comes by air,” replied Mummy.
“Can’t be, it must be from somewhere local”!, said Snehanshu.
“Well, anyway it was ordered by Vivek in Bombay,” said Mummy. As I was marvelling at how the three of them had contrived to make Big Bazaar morph into Milk Basket, Mummy confided, “Actually, it was only because there was a sale in Big Bazaar that Papa thought of ordering from them, otherwise our local shopkeeper, Amit is very good. He delivers instantly, and he is always ready to exchange items if required.”
“It wasn’t very much,” an unmoved Vivek responded, when I told him later what had happened. “Only about 250 g each of mixed sprouts and some moong sprouts and some corn, and a few other things they should be eating. Next time, I’ll order more.”
It’s evidently not long till we will be party to the next episode of the inevitable combination of Chinese Whisper and Passing the Parcel — only till the next order!
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Treya's Doctor Series
:-) when was this
ReplyDeleteNot so very long ago!:)
ReplyDelete