Easter Sunday

It was Easter Sunday and we were strewn on couches in my friend Carrol’s house.

I always find that I tend to awake from a night of wining and dining very early and very mentally alert. Unfortunately no one else ever wakes up at the same hour – usually they surface about five hours later, clutching their heads and stomachs, looking decidedly green. So I have consigned myself to cleaning, organising or reading in the aftermath of a party.

Unfortunately, none of the above mentioned avenues were available to me in Carrol’s chic little townhouse. Padding up to the kitchen counter, I silently scanned her shelves for a glass. In the semi-darkness, I could make out a shape on the other couch. Carrol and Maureen were probably in a semi-comatose condition in the next room.

There was a clatter as I inadvertently fell over a wire on my journey back to the couch. The bump on the second couch stirred and flipped back the bedclothes.

“You are always SUCH an early riser,” sleepily Stephen shook his head at me.

“Sorry”, I mouthed to him wryly. “Go back to sleep, its only five-thirty. I don’t know why I cannot sleep”.

“Oh well”, he said, as he got up and peered at his watch. “ I am awake now. Lets get a cup of tea each and watch the day emerge”.

And so, ten minutes later, steaming mugs of tea in hand we sat on the terrace watching the rain-soaked day emerge. I relaxed, not feeling the need to be entertaining – Stephen is a very gentle, almost painfully shy soul – he is happy to sit still and not make too much idle conversation.

“This is a very nice house”, he suddenly said to me.

Startled out of my reverie, I looked across at him and smiled.

“It is, is it not? Carrol’s brother purchased it last year.”

“Really?” Stephen’s eyes widened at me. “They are not renting? Wow.” He looked around him with renewed interest. “So what does Carrol’s brother do again?”

“He is an IT Engineer,” I smiled at him.

Stephen stopped his perusal of the wooden deck and looked at me quizzically.

“An IT engineer? Wow. How come all you Indians are IT Engineers, Bankers and Doctors?”

I grinned smugly. “Because a good education is very important for us. We are also, generally speaking, more IT savvy and literate, in our middle class population subset, than most nations.”

He looked at me thoughtfully, nodding gently.
“Yes, I did read that. But you know I always wonder… How come I never find Indians who are…..”

“…Plumbers, builders and carpenters?” I completed for him, with some amusement. “Unlike Australia, the middle class prefers the more educated professions than the trades in India.”

Stephen shook his head at me and smiled. “I was not going to refer to the trades. I do know that the trades are not considered viable professions in the Upper Indian middle class.”

“Sorry Steve”, I said, chastised. “I have to learn to stop interrupting you. You were saying….?”

“Well,” he said. “I was wondering how come no Indians are in professions like….Urban Town Planning, for instance.”

I goggled at him. “Urban Town Planning?”

“Well yes, you know,” he said matter-of-factedly. “What kind of shops are located in a locality, what kind of traffic will flock to them? And so, what network of roads should be laid, etc. etc.”

That is the amazing thing about Stephen. He can suddenly come up with an astonishing idea and stop you in your tracks.

“I don’t think that is really considered”.

“What do you mean?” he asked me. “I mean, surely, you have such large cities. These factors must need planning and hence professionals?”

“No. No. I mean, sure, we have health, sanitation and civic authorities. But so many of our cities have grown so organically, I don’t think they were ever consciously constructed.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Like many other cities in the world,” I said, somewhat defensively. “And I think a lot of this is covered in architecture and urban design. But I cannot recall the civil planning authorities being recruited from Urban Planning designers, really”.

He just shook his head at me.

“And so, I don’t think any parent tells his child – ‘Why don’t you think about becoming an Urban Design Planner’. Do you understand?”

“Hmm…I do. Its like a blind spot in a world of scientists, accountants doctors and engineers.”

We fell silent again – and I contemplated his words. Perhaps it really was our blind spot. One of our challenges as Indians is the heterogeneity of our society. And the fact that the educated Indians are so busy catering to the more visible demands of the Western world, we fail to see the opportunities in the domestic markets. Perhaps it is also, that the average consumer in India still cannot afford a well-planned city, or other civic possibilities that my blinded brain cannot think of. And so, till the demand does not arise, there will be no need to ensure a supply. Whatever the reason, I definitely cannot remember the last time Urban Design Planning was discussed in a career counselling workshop that I attended.

Suddenly, there was a shuffling noise from inside. Carrol emerged looking dishevelled and sleepy.

“You always wake up super early after a big night,” she looked at me accusingly. “What was your over-active brain analysing this time?”

I merely shrugged and smiled.

“Shall we get some more tea and some breakfast?”

Fools Day

N is a lovely, old client of P’s. She has been seeing him for many years now, and counts him as a very fond friend. A fortnight ago, she stood across the counter from me, making her next time to see P.

“Oh, please can I see him in a fortnight on the Wednesday?” she asked.

“Sure thing. Your usual time?”

“Oh yes,” she responded. “Unless he comes in earlier? It’s April Fools Day on the day and I want to play a prank on him”.

After she left, I smiled to myself and made a mental note to be in office the next time N was to come in. I did not want to miss this.

Two days back, she called me to re-confirm.

“So, I am the very first client he will see on Wednesday, right?” she re-affirmed.

“Oh yes”, I said, absently.

“Good. Because I have thought of how to confuse him.”

Today, I watched N with some amusement, as she waited eagerly in the waiting area. I hoped that her prank would be successful. Soon, an unsuspecting P ushered her into the consult room, closing the door behind him. Some five minutes later, I heard much guffawing and laughter drift through the closed door.

“Her prank must have been successful”, I thought to myself absently.

Fifty minutes later, N walked out wringing her hands. She sought me out almost instantly.

“Do you know what happened?”

I looked from her to P, questioningly.

“As I sat down across him, I told him that he was wearing socks from two different pairs.”

P chuckled.

“I expected him to get flustered and check his socks,” she shook her head sadly.

“What happened?” I asked.

“Oh, he just exclaimed at how perceptive I was.”

I was confused.
As if to explain, P raised his trouser legs to reveal one black and one grey sock each.

Trying to contain my amusement, I consoled her.

“I understand N. Does it not worry you that he is a certified practitioner?”

“Oh well”, she said with some gentle irony. “I guess you have to be a little crazy yourself, to treat the crazy.”

I smiled and looked to P, who by now, was gleefully recounting the episode to someone else in the office and showing off his mismatched socks.

“I really should see someone,” I heard his voice ring out merrily, “But I cannot afford to see myself.”

Laughing helplessly, I went back to my work.