My name is Mythily and I am a self confessed cribber. I love cribbing about work, unreasonable deadlines, annoying clients, having a boring routine, the heat, about Nemo being cranky in the mornings, about Memoll being too loving in the mornings, about my sister being away, about the geyser not working, about not having much to do in Bangalore, about how my parents aren’t around, how my friends stay in different places, that my new green dress is missing and I am sure the dhobhi stole it and so many other things. It feels good to crib and get sulky. There is some joy in making yourself miserable and feeling sorry for yourself. But then this morning I stumbled across the whistler.
I woke up early this morning and broke all norms of normalcy. Nemo and Memoll were shocked into silence that their mom woke up at 6 am. I could see the questions like “Are we dreaming?”, “Is she sick?”, and “Is the world coming to an end?” flit across their faces. So I tried telling them not to fear, it was only because I expected a client call that I was up so early. So I set up my laptop and waited for the call to come.
I walked over the balcony as I waited and looked down from my balcony. The sun light was flickering through the tree leaves and the morning buzz was different from the late morning buzz I normally hear. There was no blaring horns and vendors screaming out about their goods, and kids crying at being dragged to school and the neighbor telling her husband off for all the million mistakes he seems capable of making everyday. It wasn’t quiet, but at the same time it was too. And then I saw him; the whistler.
There is an unfortunate spot at the end of my street where the garbage is dumped and the lorry picks it up everyday. But it isn’t a well organized spot. It usually buzzed with flies and the stench of the garbage always wafted through the air. It looked grimy and smelt ripe of all the disgusting things people seem to be capable of producing to throw away. And on top of this pile of vile sat a little boy, about 8 or 9, whistling away as he picked out all the plastic; our very own desi recycler doing the work we could have made easier for him if we all took the effort to separate our garbage. No complaints about how people make work harder, or that they disregarded him, or that they found him as disgusting as the garbage, or that he had to smell of it everyday, or all the other worries I am sure he has in life. All he did was do his work, and do it with sheer joy and whistle while at it.
And I thought about my life; and everything fit and looked good. The heat I complained about was more warmth than heat, the clients and work was responsible for paying all my bills, Nemo and Memoll were free enough to show me emotions and let me show mine, my sister was getting a great education being away, the geyser not working made me appreciate the coolness of water on a hot day, Bangalore has given me friends and an easy life, I am closer to my friends coz now we make an effort to keep in touch since we are away from each other, that my parents are healthy and happy together, that if the green dress is missing I am lucky enough to afford another one , and that things were suddenly looking up for me and that I had a feeling that the road ahead was going to be a lot of fun. So here I am, whistling while I write. Pucker up people and whistle away too.
No comments:
Post a Comment