I
love standing here in my balcony overlooking the beautiful landscape before
settling with my routine morning domestic chores. The heavy shower of the
previous night has turned the sultry and humid summer into an unusual pleasant
morning. The soothing cool breeze stirs in me mixed feelings pushing me into
introspection. During such a rare occasion, I am at my best in analyzing. Well,
analyzing has become a big part of me these days.
My
attention shifts to the happenings around. Staying in a confined space of
a steel plant township, I see people rushing to work wearing jackets, safety
shoes, and helmets. And across my apartment, the labours flock to the building
under construction. Women chattering in merriment, their infectious laugh
drifting from afar brings a smile on my face. Is it called a life of
contentment?!
My
attention then shifts to one of my condo mates who walk to her balcony adjacent
to mine, to hang a towel. She seems to be so preoccupied that she doesn’t
even notice me. She has a cook, a domestic helper, a nurse to look after
her ailing mother-in-law and all she needs to do is to overlook and give
directions. Me, on the other side, prefer to do my household chores
myself, and I do each bit of it to my set standards of perfection. I complain,
sulk and regret sometimes though. Because years of my corporate career has
deprived me of the happiness found in these little things, I had reasoned out
for myself and hence tricked and tamed my mind. Or so I thought. Tick, tick,
tick, as I check on my to-do list mentally, I wonder, is this my life?
My phone pings
just as I hit the bed for my post-lunch nap.
Call you in
the evening. Have lots to discuss.
Such
occasional messages from my elder daughter always give magical powers to me. I
love talking for hours. And every alternate day I get to hear my second
daughter. Once a week, from my son. I call them my team, my army,
my mine of strength.
Sharp
8 pm, my husband returns from work. Hi,
he says, his eyes glued to his mobile screen. Just for the sake of having a
conversation, I respond too, a cold response while the television continues
blaring about the happenings around. Exactly at 10.10 pm, he gets his
last reporting phone call and at 10.15 he retires to the bedroom, wishing me a
tiresome good night.
Before
switching off the lights I open the door to keep the bag for the milk pack that
arrives early in the morning. There, I see my condo mate too tucking the bag to
the nail on the wall. The same frowned brows, the preoccupied expression!
How
on the earth people are so busy, contented and happy, I cannot stop
wondering. If it is the small chatters that keep the working class happy,
it is the planning for this condo mate of mine that keeps her occupied.
And for my husband, it is his busy schedule, his work, his passion. I
envy his single-minded focus and devotion towards his career though many a
time, I just cannot complain, for he is the bread earner.
And
to me, are my desultory domestic chores what hardly takes two hours a day and
lengthy phone calls that keep me busy apart from some occasional reading and
writing.
If that is
all that I have on my platter, so be it. No big deal!
