The first thing I did when we arrived at Sage Cottage, after letting the cats out of their carriers, to their wonder and delight was to rest our eardrums. They’d been assaulted by plaintive meows all 300 km from Delhi. No, for 250 km. The felines were too tired to protest for the last 50 km. How do you rest your eardrums? By making as little noise as possible once you’ve attended to the source of caterwauling.
When I went up to the wooden room and saw what I saw, I didn’t yell but peered around in silent rage. The carpentry work was impeccable. The feeling of being enclosed in a pine cocoon with a refreshing and comforting resinous scent was as I had hoped. The glass panes let in just the right amount of dappled light and views of steep, conifer covered slopes. What then was wrong?
Pinterest. In the months Vaseem had taken to hammer things together I tempered my impatience by planning. I painted mental pictures of cream dream catchers, fairy lights, a bed enhanced by scattered throws, tribal art cushions, kilims, a desk to write on, books everywhere, family photos on the walls and the niches full of crystal rocks and candles. It was the dissonance between what I saw and what I imagined that made me want to assault my eardrums with my own complaints. It wasn’t that I hadn’t yet set up the room as planned. It was the sight that met my eyes which left no space for my fantasy. The room was full of wood shavings and half sawn planks of wood. The light, a paper lantern lovingly chosen in Kathmandu and transported to Delhi and then the Kumaon with utmost care had been hoisted up unceremoniously and trussed up with bright blue wire. The ladder stood in the middle of the room like a Stairway to Heaven since it had no apparent reason to be where it was. The glass panes displayed grubby fingerprints and tape.
Sage Cottage has a caretaker. In the six weeks between Vaseem finishing the room and my arrival with my cats, he hadn’t had the time to tidy up. I’d had a suspicion about his indifference because his daily calls to me to discuss work had diminished. He also rarely answered my calls. We communicated at Diwali, not to wish each other, which we did, but for him to demand why I hadn’t sent him Diwali money. I had. The accusation made me defensive and instead of asking him why he was being so rude without checking his bank account, I kept my tone even and dispassionate. I could have asked him why he wasn’t answering calls, but I didn’t.
Now, looking around the wooden room at the chaos I seethed at the recollection of this rude call when he’d done nothing to deserve his salary, let alone a bonus.
This caretaker had given up trying to prove his worth. I had phoned him that morning from the car to say I was on my way and told him to make alu parathas for lunch and get some yoghurt too. Alu parathas need yoghurt. Some finely chopped tomatoes, onions and radish add just the right touch but I knew that was quite an ask since there aren’t many grocery stores nearby.
It’s usually impossible to stop me from eating at a Dhaba when on a road trip, but Corona changed all that. Now it’s egg sandwiches and an apple in the car, one stop for the loo and a takeaway coffee/chai with the promise of a hot meal at home. This caretaker had quite enough time to clean the room and prepare lunch, six hours time.
At 3 o clock, the sun had slid over the hill, leaving the garden in shadow with a brisk breeze knifing through us. We were hungry. Almost too hungry to care how the garden was at once overgrown in some places while ragged and bare in others. All the hydrangeas were black from lack of water.
Dehydrated hydrangea - this is the prettiest - the others looked like Tim Burton drew them
Clearly, the gardener/caretaker thought the monsoon, now long over, would take care of the watering. The golden cypress bent over unsupported. A parasite plant feasted unhindered on the plants and vines that were meant to shelter us from the neighbour’s Airbnb guests’ curious peering at my garden. This and the tool shed of a wooden bedroom didn’t help the mood after a 7-hour journey punctuated by coughing and punctured by heartrending meows.
A wilderness, not a garden - even Rosie is displeased
This charming caretaker, whose only job was to clean and make this one meal said, ‘Abhi banata hu.’ I’m just making it. He then prepared to lope up the hill. Where are you going, I asked. To buy potatoes. Buying potatoes involves an extra 20 minutes. After that, he would boil them, then mash them and THEN make parathas. Still, I protected my eardrums from my own raised voice. I didn’t shriek. I didn’t say anything, knowing that once I started I would be unstoppable.
When, an hour later, he served the parathas without yoghurt. I asked why. He said there was none in the shop. There was. I went to the tiny grocery store the next day and bought yoghurt.
All this made it clear that he didn’t want to work anymore. We parted ways. I’d stopped coughing immediately in the clear air and had enough pent up anger to take care of the garden and the house without help.
Vaseem on the other hand was full of big smiles and sweet delight at his handiwork. I prefer not to greet Muslims with Namaste, as I do Hindus because it is considered Haraam in Islam. I’d forgotten that the accepted greeting is Salaam, so I greeted Vaseem with Good Morning the first time we met because that’s what popped into my head. Vaseem now greets me with Good Morning, whatever the time of day. At 5 in the evening, he came to meet me with a Good Morning, to see if I liked the room. It wasn’t about the payment, I had already cleared my dues, based on video evidence he sent.
Vaseem, like me, couldn’t believe that nothing had been cleaned up. He looked around, shaking his head without any instigation from me. He expressed his surprise over and over. I was glad to hear it because self-doubt had kicked in and I wondered whether my expectations were too high. Raised to impossible heights by Pinterest.
More about Vaseem and the caretaker tomorrow