The movers did a good job of packing. We supplemented it by numbering the cartons: “1/23, Kitchen: Day to day,” “5/23, Kitchen: Occasions,” “12/23: Living room: Show pieces,” “21/23: Misc,” etc. Then began a brisk job of loading. If only I had not supervised this personally, I would have saved myself of some hiccups, heart-beat race, and stomach-upset feelings - pronounced more when the movers tried to squeeze our new 48” flat TV between two heavy-weight stacks, or when they played around with the light crockery boxes in a catch it if you can style.
The truck is now road-bound. Both the driver and I preferred to take our different routes, and whosoever reached Konana Kunte cross first, would wait for the other. We arrived first. Now, how to spot his truck from the host of other ones passing by. All I could recollect was that his was a female truck; it had a nicely plaited hairband swinging at the rear. Suddenly my mobile rang, and the driver said, “Aao, aao”. Apparently he had gone past me, and I tried to catch up with any truck in front. No luck. I sped fast. Still no luck. By then I had reached the Vajarahalli turning leading to our new apartment. I stopped my car. The driver had limitations with Hindi and I with Kannada. So I dialled his number and gave my mobile to a passerby and requested him to communicate with the driver. By then, the driver spotted me. I guessed the communication gap could be either because he said “Aao” for “Jao” or, to be fair to him, I misheard the word. Notwithstanding this minor fiasco, we hit SFV by sunset.
As soon as the boys placed the boxes in the respective rooms, I allowed myself to tip them a bit liberally, and assured them not to bother about unpacking, we would do it ourselves leisurely. But that was not to be. They wanted the cartons back, and began emptying the boxes with a me-first gusto.
Rather than getting embittered with their unceremonious offloading, we used it as a springboard to compound it. Yes, it was already dinner time, and nothing works on an empty stomach, at least with us. So, we stuffed everything in the cupboards that the Interiors had crafted for us meticulously. “We are going to be here after all, we can always re-arrange them,” we justified ourselves. Thankfully, I have a host of such excuses handy for any labour-intensive activity.
A month has passed since, and we still have not given up. We will re-arrange them - one day. Meanwhile, we trace any item on an ad hoc basis. “I say, where did you keep that nail cutter?” I asked the lady of the house the other day. “Me? Didn’t you supervise the MISC cartons? You should know better,” she shot back. Before I could organise a rejoinder, she fired the next salvo, “By the way, where is that CD collection? I want to listen to some bhajans, (rather than hear you blabber - if my stretched ears captured right the murmur).”
“Oh, you mean that pack which we transported during a pre-move visit?” “Don’t sidetrack, just tell me where is it,” she persisted. Hardly had I begun to look for it methodically than she did a quick work and unearthed it - from the cupboard meant for me.
“Now you know which pack I meant?” she asked me raising her new-find sky-high, as did David Warner, the SRH captain, with the IPL cup, to thirty thousand spectators. The only difference was the display here was to a solitary spectator with an open-mouthed awe, rather than a jubilant one.
In married life, I should ideally have chosen to field first, I said to myself. Now it is her turn to bat, and she knows exactly the score to chase (after accounting for a possible rain), and take a call whether it should be in fours, sixes, or simply resort to a Gaylestorm.
V V Sundaram
Maple 3195
19 June 2016
