Thank you to a place
My nights with family go well when I pick flowers from our terrace plants first thing in the morning. Mother likes to string them for God early next day. And father likes to know mother’s kept happy when she returns home from a draining day at work.
Done in 4 minutes, the task is a quick win to start the day by finishing things you’ve set to finish. Watering the plants is a bigger win.
Completing the two also sets me on watch for other annoyances mother may face on returning home: my disconnected charger switched on, washed vessels not back in from the wash area, soiled plates not out to the wash area, perishables not duly taken to the fridge after lunch, to name the exact four.
Failing at any of these usually sets off the mental bomb made to mom everyday at work. And so the family’s only hours with each other at night depends on the tasks, and so me.
The terrace is also the only place really, I step out to from home, both weekdays & weekends. All my weekdays are at the desk. And all my weekends have recently been at T.Nagar. With friends out to work in other cities, it’s the only similar thing I’ve shared a continuous history with:
Board exam studies on Sundays when family is loud at home, furious arguments over not watering the plants as a school kid, Mom telling ‘If watering them is hard, then throw them out’, and me vividly imagining sending a pot over the wall, songs over powercut nights, a good summer night’s sleep under the skies, all four rapidly packing-up should it choose to rain, or just plain hanging out there when the nights were meant to be social. Lots.
And so when I visit the terrace now, I nod a ‘morning’ to the 10:30 AM sun, say ‘Heyyy… Wassuup?’ just once to the plants (Mom sings to these lives, which rubbed off on me), and go about picking, fulfilled by the small way I’m helping out in. So grateful you’re just upstairs all the time, terrace.
