Kishore Singh: What will they do without me?

The neighbour wants to know why I have a bump on my head, so I explain to him that it came from colliding with a lamp post. “What were you doing wrestling with a lamp post?” he asks, no doubt thinking himself clever at his choice of phrase. “I ran into it because I couldn’t see it while walking in the fog,” I explain. Since I’m not known for exerting overmuch, I suppose he is right in wanting to know what I was doing loitering in the fog anyway. “I was taking the dog for his constitutional,” I explain the canine’s insistence at being walked when it is still dark and the winter chill at its bitterest.

 

Lamp posts aren’t the only things that go bump in the dark and fog — in just a few days I’ve walked gobsmack into parked cars, been intimate with a gulmohur, bruised myself sliding down the stairs and crashed through a hedge. For a small dachshund, it’s amazing how much the little fellow can pull at the leash, so you go stumbling over flower pots or crashing into bicycles abandoned on the sidewalk by children.

But protuberances erupting across the forehead or trying to wipe the fog from the spectacles is the least of my woes now that the cook has gone on an extended leave and the general factotum has decided to rebel and turn his 24x7 shift into a day job to tend to his pregnant wife. As a result, there’s no one around any more to fetch the ice when I call for a drink — making it incumbent for me to both fill the ice pail myself as well as pour my own drink. The world is rapidly in danger of becoming an uncivilised place.

It would help, somewhat, if the other residents chipped in with their bit to try and make light of the extra load, but getting them away from hot water-bottles in bed and electrical heating devices is pretty nigh impossible. Not wanting to set her own tea tray in the morning, my wife has taken to disappearing for walks that mysteriously wind up at various neighbours’ homes where she is generous to accept their hospitality, so I’m forced to not only fend for myself but also organise breakfast for our extremely fastidious and picky daughter before she leaves for college.

She won’t have cereals or fruit or toast with preserves, things that are at least easy to provide; her milk must be at the exact right temperature and served at exactly the time she’s done her hair, or she’s likely to get into a huff. And if she can’t find the right shirt, or pair of trousers, she’s likely to have a tantrum and throw out the contents of her wardrobe, leaving a mess behind to be cleared up after she’s gone off with a piece of rusk in one hand, a fistful of almonds in the other.

Not that there’s any time to rest after she’s left — there are the clothes to pick up and put away, the driver wants his tea, there are phone calls for my wife to be attended to (because, of course, she’s left her phone behind), the dog needs to be fed, the clock’s ticking away and I need to take a shower before rushing off to work — but nobody remembered to switch on the geyser, so I make do with a cold sponge instead.

The dog is waiting for his evening walk when I get back, the fog is back, I haven’t any idea where my wife is (her phone, unlike her, is at least at home), my daughter wants dinner, all of which would be bearable if someone could at least fetch the ice and fix me a drink. Arre, koi hai?