Unlikely Encounter

My mood was as gloomy as the weather today. The day itself was a non starter. The usual Saturday morning routine – wash the bathrooms, change the linen, oil hair till it drips on the shoulders and irritates the shit out of you. Maid, garbage collector, presswala gets the clothes, mineral water replaced – I settle down to read the newspapers at last with a mug of coffee and some namkeen. Too lazy to make breakfast.

The plan for the day is to go to the bank, do the grocery and buy the dusseri mango grafts for my brother. One by one, each resolve breaks down. I surf the net for Swedish Meatballs in Delhi – Gerry has been salivating at the thought of them the past few days. It was pork chops last weekend. I wonder what’s with her. Next I surf for old age homes in Delhi. Maybe I’ll feel better if I interact with someone who’s feeling more out on a limb than me. Nothing interesting in these parts. Well there is an opportunity for a blind date this evening – but no, I’m not too sure I can handle that either. I procrastinate till 2 p.m. until further visits by the dhobi; postman and the thuk, thuk, bang, bang overhead make me take a firm decision – to get out! A quick shower and I’m on the road to nowhere.

New plan. I go to Dilli Haat for lunch. Rista Rice at the Kashmiri stall. Dhiru has been talking about this so much lately. He wants to go to Dilli haat on arrival from the U.S.A. But I predict that won’t be possible and so I do him the favour and enjoy every morsel on his behalf. A cup of hot tea is all I need now, but that can wait. This place is not right for a good cuppa. Time pass – I buy lac and glass bangles for mum and decent tea mugs for the mali and the maid to drink their morning chai from. Yes and tons of rakhis! I have to buy my sister’s share too because she’s in a habit of making money out of mine if I trust her to do the honours on my behalf. J

Next stop, Rajdhani Nursery on Jor Bagh Road. My favorite, as far as, nurseries go. Exotic, healthy plants and very attentive staff. I drive in and park at the end of a long line of cars. Then walk through rows of beautiful, green, rain washed plants. At the end of the row, which brings me to the nursery office, I notice an old, white haired and bearded man sitting under a canopy. Cane garden furniture makes for his outdoor drawing room. I look at him and ask – “Dusseri grafts milenge?” “Sure” he says and then goes on to invite me to sit down. I am quite surprised, but go ahead and sit down anyway.

He then goes on to ask me if I’d like a glass of water. “No thank you” I answer politely.

“Its RO purified”, he assures me.

“I’m fine really”, I say.

“How about a cup of tea? It will be made right here”, he persists.

Did he hear me asking for grafts? I don’t know why this man wants to be nice to me. I answer in the negative.

He doesn’t give up. Calls to the mali to arrange for the grafts and starts up a conversation. Then the inevitable question. “What does your husband do?” Can’t a woman be single? Well, I politely tell him I’m not married. He says, “Why not? You have such a nice personality! See, so many people come and go here, but I looked at you and just wanted to talk.”

Now, it was my turn to feel flattered. It’s a long time since someone said something so nice to me. I started to feel better already.

“I pray you find your ideal partner” he continues, not in the mood to give up.

The mali comes with mango trees instead of grafts. He’s sent back with instructions. The next person who comes is asked to bring me a glass of juice. “Tea please, in that case”, I say. So it is ordered. Now we settle down in right earnest to a very meaningful conversation.

“You know”, he says, “young girl came to the nursery the other day and asked me discounts on the plants she bought. She said she lives in the neighborhood, so deserves special rates. I asked her if she lives in Jor Bagh. She said yes, after her talaaq she returned to stay with her father. He said, I felt so sad, such a young girl and asked her why she gave up so soon. He then went on to say, that whenever he heard of people divorcing, he would look at his wife and think how can they? One day when his wife asked him why he was looking at her so thoughtfully, he answered. ‘Imandari yeh hai, ki jab log mujhe kehte hain ki unki talaaq ho gayi, mein aapko dekh ke sochta hoon, yeh kaise ho sakta hai? Mein aapke bina ek pal bhi nahi guzaar sakta!* What was Shah Jahan’s love for Mumtaz Mahal, compared to mine?” Wah. Wah, Khan mian! I was floored.

He lost his wife 4 years ago suddenly to cancer. He says he was handsome till then! He lost interest in life and just hung around listless for two years till he felt his limbs getting numb due to just sitting around. He then slowly tried to get back on the road. He called for photo albums and proudly showed me a picture of his wife and him – handsome in dark hair, which he admits are dyed J This is one rich guy. The rest of the album had pictures of his farm house near Meerut. 8 Bighas of land and a bollywood style mansion.

Photographs with every President, Prime Minister and numerous politicians. “The Prime Minister came for my son’s wedding” he says. It was a gathering of 5000 people, 2000 hindus and 3000 muslims. And he didn’t take a penny in dowry, told them there’s no place in his house.

Hot, milky tea arrives. He tells me about how he wished for a lady he knew to find her partner and that it came true. So he hopes the same happens to me. He says it was so nice talking to me, he felt so light and I could come back any time to get my plants taken care off for free. Well, with that, I pay him for the plants – cost price and leave.

Did I have to look for old age homes to find someone to talk to? No, it just came to pass!

*(“The truth is, when people tell me they’ve got a divorce, I think, how can they? When I look at you, I think, I can’t pass a single moment without you. What was Shah Jahan’s love for Mumtaz Mahal compared to mine!”)