“Clunk……clank……tung……jhan……jhannnn……”

A cacophony of sounds disturbs our tresses. Distresses us to the core. It is six in the morning. The sun is already out to witness all that goes on in this mad world.

Idiocies happen. Mother sighs.

“It is Asha, she has dropped the milk utensil.”

Asha is our neighbours’ daughter, one of the many. Prone to accidents of the minor kind, she usually presents a picture of complete disarray. Hence, even though there is no singular reason to suspect her, the finger of suspicion points to none else.

My mother isn’t actually making a guess. Five and half years of experience of staying with the same neighbours has made her an astute observer of what goes on outside the four walls. The Sahays share one of them with us. Though thick, that common separator of the two households is rarely able to hold back anything in confidence.

“Now one of them will come to ask for milk.” Mother continues cynically, unable to resist testing her intuition. She places a great stress on ‘one of them’, tilting her tone to accommodate the mild disgust that serenades her mind.

Sure enough, the bell gives a dirty chime after two minutes. It is really strange how the sweet little ding dong takes a discordant hue every time one in the Sahay ilk cares to press it. Toothbrush in the mouth, I instinctively make my way to the door, only to be perfunctorily stopped.

“Don’t waste your time. You will get delayed for school.”

“This is all I have.” I hear her speak to the person, whoever he or she is, on the other side of the door. She has in her hands a cup with milk filled to a quarter.

***

We stay at D-301. One of the eight flats in the condominium, this house along with D-302 is the most prized. A house at the ground floor is always the most coveted, at least where we stay, because of the enormous open space it comes along with, as also the exemption from climbing of stairs (there are no lifts).

The Sahays are the occupants of D-302. As the quarter numbers indicate, they are our immediate neighbours, whether we like it or not.

The Sahays constitute one big family. Though the family as a whole has been occupying the same company quarter for many years, relatives are always coming in and going out.

Of course, Sahay Uncle is head of family – he earns just enough to feed the many mouths and eke out a decent living. For her part, Sahay Auntie is forever lighting the earthen hearth and cooking in a valiant effort at feeding the many mouths and spending all that her husband can earn.

It is seven by the time I am all dressed and ready for school. Because of the vantage point of my house, the bus stop is nearby. Abha didi is in the lawns when I step out, her mouth full of toothpaste spit – so full that part of it is threatening to overflow down her face and neck. She is the eldest of Sahay children and is old enough to be getting married.

If I am not mistaken, she is going to spit the foam out within half a minute. She will be doing that in the lawns or whatever remains of it, in full view of the world since she has no other options. Bathrooms in her house are probably occupied, there is no wash basin outside those and she hasn’t yet requested to use ours.

But before she does anything of the sort, she has a request for me. The air from her mouth tries its best to look for some gap to make its presence felt on the outside. She raises her face upwards to thwart that – the entire result is macabre.

“Tutu, can you get me a practical copy? You know... the one with ruled pages on one side and white pages on other.”

I put out my hand for the coins. She goes inside and after a long time comes out with the money. By that time my bus has come and gone and I am in it. Guess Bubloo will have to do the job.

Serves him right! The way he hit me with a pebble yesterday deserves a severe punishment, and for him no retribution can be too harsh. Even if he has to go and get something for his sister, a job which he hates, so be it!

Bubloo is Abha didi’s brother, the fourth in line and the supposed jewel in the crown. Three girls had to come to earth so that Bubloo, a male, could be born to the Sahays. He is supposed to be the torchbearer of the family and one who would be carrying on the lineage. He is also expected to be brilliant in studies (just like his father) and sports, but so far has shown none of the propensity.

The good thing about the company quarters is that even though the house itself is reasonably spacious, it offers a big garden which can be used for myriad purposes. We use it for cricket. The Sahays use it for growing vegetables and rearing hens.

So you have a good idea of our neighbours. But wait, I haven’t yet mentioned the others. After Abha, there is Indu, then Aarti. There is nothing much to distinguish between them, except the eleven month hiatuses. Bubloo is next, after that Asha and the last in the queue Nilu. Nilu is just two, not in school yet. Hopefully by now Sahay Uncle and Auntie have realised that begetting a second son is not their forte.

Then there is effervescent Chacha, someone not to be missed - even if I do, he won’t let me. A perennial occupant of the Sahay household and quite young for a brother of Sahay Uncle, he is Chacha of the six and by default, mine too. But by now I have also come to realise that age in the Sahay household has no logical bearing at all.

***

Well, the next morning too is not much different. Mother gets up at five; among other chores she has to prepare the early morning breakfast for me and my father, who will leave for office before eight. There are two minor differences though – the milk utensil hasn’t fallen (but there is an expected demand for sugar), and I have to get the iron so that my father can press his clothes. To put it more succinctly, I have to retrieve the iron for father to press the clothes.

I approach hesitantly, as if borrowing something I am not supposed to. Auntie glares at me. She knows why I have come. The hardest moment is when I have to utter those dreaded words.

“Iron chahiye.”

I am asked to go inside, rummage among the clothes (not mine, mind you!) and search for the precious item. On different days, it is kept at different places, in different rooms also, but with some experience I have secured a fair idea of the locations where it is mostly available. I have hardened myself to extract it even from underneath some underwear; I am no longer so easily shocked.

Let me clarify. It is not entirely a hand-to-mouth situation for the Sahays, but it isn’t a case of opulence either. They aren’t exactly modern, neither are they too savvy with modern equipments. But if a neighbour is using something safely without getting his hand burnt, they can use that too.

So they have our iron, their neighbour’s iron – as good as their own. And it is my duty to retrieve that at the crack of dawn. Only to lose it two hours or so later! Just after my father leaves, some Sahay will be there to get it back. This cycle will again be repeated tomorrow. Thankfully, there are some days off!

Guess it is too much friendliness. Maybe too much of this extended family business. But after four months of the purchase which my father made with his hard earned money, severe usage has rendered a dent and some coat-off, and we are pretty much amiable to forget there is something like an iron that legally belongs to us.

All hell breaks loose when my father gets a telephone from office. He is the first mainframe programmer in the company; hence he has been provided the communication device so that his boss can call him whenever the need arises (or when he wants to). The equipment is a rarity in these times, the likes of which are not easily available. Although the telephone is able to connect only within the company area, it has become a thing of immense importance and prestige.

The ring-tone is loud, there is no switch to monitor that aspect, and we can be sure of some one running from D-302 whenever there is a call. Then one of Sahay siblings gazes in pure astonishment as my father converses, marvelling at the black grotesque instrument. Thankfully none has any friend with a telephone so the admiration just stays there.

After a couple of days, my father is exasperated. His privacy is in shambles. In the evening he talks to mother.

“We will have to shift from here. There is no point staying with another twenty people.”

Though twenty is a gross exaggeration, my mother does not find any humour to merit a smile. My father has spoken for all of us.

“Why don’t you apply for the E type quarters? Surely you are eligible.”

“I have already. But there is a long wait.”

***

Life goes on. The relationship with the Sahays drags in a sweet-sour manner. There are brawls on a regular basis and I am the one in the middle most of the times. But the animosity is as quickly gone. In the midst of annoyance and skirmishes, there is a strange bonhomie that exists between the two families.

However, in spite of all that, we long for a tit-for-tat. A sweet revenge! Nothing sinister, but just an effort at getting the message across. That, in times of reckoning, we too are of mettle!

God provides an opportunity soon enough.

Let me mention here that the moments in the present are nowhere like the distant future when life will have eased considerably and there will be something like money aplenty. Entertainment is rare, so are family outings. The best we can think of in terms of a good day is having a softy-ice cream costing half a buck. But we all do splurge, once in a while.

The Sahays choose a Sunday for a rare excursion. A jeep is arranged from somewhere and a little after ten, the eight are out. A strange enthusiasm floats in the air.

Chacha is left behind. He has to look after the property, of which the rows of potatoes and various other vegetables need to be saved from rampaging cows and buffaloes. The hens are also to be fed.

But after lunch, he is nowhere to be seen. He has developed a few friends – his absence in the vicinity goads us to presume that he is with them.

Around four in the afternoon, we hear a lot of hurried scurrying about in our garden. Is there a snake?

A hen is at our back door. On espying us, she stutters off in fright but comes back again, displaying abnormal impatience for someone who is used to spending long hours in the sun for the sake of a few grains. I have seen similar signs in Nilu when her bladder gets full, but present conditions do not warrant such incidents with the hen. Obviously, something is much more serious.

As always, my mother displays a presence of mind and common sense. It is she who comes to our rescue, and of the dainty bird.

“The hen wants to lay an egg!”

Now the scurrying about is transferred from the hen to us mortals. Somebody is in distress and it becomes our moral duty to do something before she changes her mind. And before her owner comes in!

There are innumerable jobs to be done. And fast. A cosy seating place is needed. The general consensus evolves on the sofa as the most comfortable place in the household (my suggestion of the commode is rejected outright). Sufficient loading is provided by way of blankets and bed sheets to provide a still better environment for the hen to perform its ordained duty. The curtains are drawn to provide an incubated feeling and make the hen feel at home.

We also close the door with the hen inside and us outside, waiting as if a child were to be born. Well, almost!

The job over, the hen is shooed away – with all respect, I may add. She scampers off as if nothing has happened, for her this is just a daily activity. If she has found this new milieu better than the daily coop, she gives no hints.

Half an hour later, Chacha comes with a big question.

“Where did one of the hens lay its egg today? I can’t see it anywhere.”

“No idea.” I reply, innocence writ large on my face. “We were sleeping throughout the afternoon.”

“Are you sure?” His eyes narrow as they pierce into mine.

“Yes.”

“Then why are you smiling?”

Behind me, hidden away from view, my mother is unable to suppress her giggles. The atmosphere is horribly infectious.

“I am not smiling.” The straight face gives away.

Chacha misses an egg during dinner. Serves him right for being so irresponsible!

The poor hen! Thank God we were there for her.

[This anecdote is at least thirty years old, if not more. I have written in the present. Don’t ask me why! 
The names of characters have been changed for obvious reasons – I have forgotten them.]