The Jasmine Vine and Indian Night Queen – Need a Trim


Update for week ended 24 August 2012

Shekhar had returned from college and climbed the stairs with expectation. He had the keys to the terrace flat, but rarely used it during the day. Usually, his mother would have opened the door the moment she heard his 100cc motor-bike driving into the building compound. When he reached the third floor, he reached out to the door to push it open, but met with resistance. His mother was not there. She had left them a while ago and he fished out the keys from his pocket and fidgeted with the lock. He was angry and in the clumsy moment, got his thumb pinched in the lock. Reflexively, he pulled back his thumb and shook his hand violently, howling. He used his other hand to open the door and headed to the kitchen sink. He let his thumb soak in under the sink tap. If his mother was there, he wouldn’t have had to deal with this problem. The open door would not have caused the injury and he would walked in to a fresh piping hot cup of tea and some crunchy snacks. And they would have taken the eats and the mugs of tea to the open terrace to soak in the fresh smells of the flowering vines and bushes. His mother loved the green vines with their fragrant flowers, and on wet monsoon nights, the moist air held onto the scents for longer, turning the terrace into a fragrance sprayed open heaven, with grey or purple clouds looming overhead, and if they got closer, the refraction caused them to look red. And Shekhar did not know whether it would rain tonight and he did not care. He was bitter that his mother had packed her bags and left, there was no reason or discussions. He walked out to the terrace with his tea-bag tea and looked at the slightly overgrown jasmine vine. He had to trim it today, and the Indian Night-queen was also attracting more mosquitoes than bees with its thick undergrowth. The terrace floor was also slippery as the stagnant puddles had to led to algae growth. Shekhar had a lot of work to do, but all he wanted to do was call his mother and talk to her.

The D Boyz started their ascent pretty early in the week, as they raced upstairs in expectation of good tidings this week. The rains seemed to have caught up and as they took the SENSEX up on Tuesday, but some fumbling on Wednesday caused some injured thumbs and a slight loss that day. And then the story sunk in, as the problems within the country affected the way international investors felt about their famous D Street, and as they examined their green garden, they knew that it had overgrown and needed some trimming and pruning. A week that started high finally settled slightly lower at 17783.

Shekhar called and the phone was answered by the answering machine. He did not want to say anything, so he held on for a moment and then hung up. Smita was right beside the phone and had recognized the caller. She also knew that it would be Shekhar, her favourite middle son. He was anxious and she should have picked up the phone and talked to him. But what if it was Madhav? She would not talk to him, though they were officially still man and wife. She wanted to tell Shekhar why she left without a word and how she found courage to do it. Madhav’s torments and high-handedness was intolerable and insufferable. For him, Smita was the mother of his three strapping lads. None of his two brothers had sons, and he had three. She made fantastic food and kept a good house, unlike his sisters-in-law, one of whom ran a small business and the other was busy with the local Mahila Mandal (Women’s club). Smita was the perfect wife that he celebrated, but never let her. Ron was out for the weekend on a business trip and she reckoned she had about an hour before Madhav would usually return home from work. She picked up the phone and dialed 0011 – 91 – 20 – ……..

So what were you expectations this weekend? Did they go well? Do write in…

Have a nice weekend and a great week ahead. Cheers…..

p.s. in case you want to refresh yourself with why Shekhar liked his tea on the terrace on who Ron was – or why Smita was sad in a far away land, read https://riteriterite.wordpress.com/2012/08/04/the-indian-night-queen-and-jasmine-vine/

 

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