An Episode at Fortune City

New House Forune City - An Episode

After the initial support of the “Tribe,” (my nickname for the family), in coming and dumping all of my earthly possessions in a designated and much awaited square feet of space in Fortune City, - After the hurly burly of placing my few well traveled pieces of furniture in the room each was best suited to, -after the dreaded descent of the 17 ugly packing boxes, - (originally egg cartons from the local market at Rs.4.00 apiece.) – on the
least usable patch of floor - and finally after the careful stowing and stashing of the valued boxes containing my LG music system and speakers, the tribe settled down for a hasty mheal, (Which Baba, the headman of the tribe procured from somewhere), - and then equally hastily, they departed.

Normally tribal support in such moments of family crises and emergencies, extends well above the initial welcome week of much needed free labor and moral support, to the point where the tribe has to be tactfully extradited before their well meaning maneuvers,
manipulations and criticism irritates this tiniest and junior most tribe member into seeking instant asylum elsewhere.


But, The 17th of August, which was the day I moved, was a special day. It was the last auspicious day of the month, on which any self respecting Bengali could safely move in or out, before the Dreadful Bengali month of “Bhadro” started, prohibiting all permanent moves from one’s home and hearth, as that, according to Hindu belief, would be the very final move that such a crazy Bengali would ever make.

As no Bengali, however intrepid, would risk being erased off the face of the earth, ergo none therefore would risk staying under any roof but his own during the first and final day of this month, nor initiate a major move during any day of the dreaded Bhadro.

So off went my eager-beaver family.

The headman of course hung around till the last possible moment, delaying departure till almost 8 p.m., while he gruffly supervised the reassembling of my unwilling and non-cooperating box bed.

The husband, who I fondly call The Ant, short for Anto, which is short for Anthony, (Which actually is super short for his given name: James William Anthony John Valan),
Grumbled at the tiny but too meticulous carpenter who was now refitting my box bed in a frenzy of finesse, hopping from side to side, tapping at this, banging at that and finally after tapping his own perplexed head, hammering with fury.

Now, the Ant has another flat to call his own, (and therefore according to us Hindus, to consider as the legitimate roof over his head), so though he as a Roman catholic is free and unencumbered of such worrying beliefs, I requested him to pack up his ruffled antennae and leave as well. This he did after some final roars and rumbles at the
Pint sized carpenter, who had now resorted to jumping up and down on my bed to make the parts fit.

Finally, it was time for a one on one, my date with solitary thankless me, clutching on to the last luscious box of locally obtained chili chicken in one grubby hand and bidding my trusty tribe my tired ungrateful and grumpy adieus, with the other equally dirty paw.

Next it was time for me to survey the immediate assault to my extremely nitpicking sense of hygiene and cleanliness. This was vast, immense, unbearable and unimaginable.
The visual kill was stupendous, and if looks could kill, the appearance of flat E-06,
On arrival day, should have borne me away to a higher (or lower) plane, instantly,
month of bhadro or not. I survived and so set to work.

Before that however, let me briefly encapsulate the charming front my flat presented:
Damp drab brown packing boxes, which had got wet in the rain, sat soggy and smashed on the dusty crusty tiles. Every sweet 17 of them looked like Pandora’s box of troubles.
The always ugly green plaid sofa cushions clumped mushily on the living room sofa were also wet—and they glared their dumpy grumpy green envy at a pile of musty, moldering mattresses in the opposite corner…And so it went in the looks department. I realized that clean up would be one long painful and excruciating housewarming treat.

After that Eureka moment, the next 45 minutes were spent studiously sweeping every
single inch of every single tile of the coveted square footage, and clearing the cobwebs gaily festooning the walls and windows, scrupulously, not once but twice!

Mercifully, I had the common sense, to leave it at that for the day and call it a night! After a mad hunt for matching attire from 17 ill packed and unlabelled boxes, I ended
up emerging from a bath, gloriously clean and refreshed, but draped in a pale blue Terri cotton shirt, teamed with a beige cotton Dupatta, and with my legs encased in a ballooning red chiffon salwar. Visually I was now giving the drab whitewashed flat a splash of color!

The next hilarious event for my harlequin self was of course the planned dinner for one.
I decided on the bed which was a mistake as bang opposite and directly facing my massive king size bed, in the confined space remaining was cramped my Belgian float glass mirrored wardrobe. I love this mirror and keep it particularly clean, so now I had the dubious treat of watching myself solemnly pop piece after piece of chili chicken into my mouth, chewing steadily, looking absurdly serious with wet black hair plastered around a pale bone tired face and of course my harlequin outfit...
This double whammy treat of eating while watching myself eat as absorbedly as if I were watching The World Cup or a Hollywood blockbuster movie on a LCD television set during dinner was probably what kept the tears of loneliness at bay, for which at least, I am now thankful.
After my strange “T.V” dinner, I slept like a baby that very first night.

This ends my first episode in my new house, at Fortune City.
Next, I shall describe the gradual day by day genesis of a home of sorts from a house, and the energetic exodus of the ants, frogs and insects of Fortune City from my home, barring one small baby frog that I found useful as an efficient insect catcher!
Too noteworthy however to leave out, is this special anecdote dedicated to my Japanese Kamikaze attack on a spider the size of my palm!

This same spider ventured in at 11 p.m of my second night, by which time I had made myself comfortable on a chatai or jute mattress on the floor of the drawing room. Cable T.V having been installed, I was snug as a bug under a sleeping bag (and not a rug), watching a melodramatic Hindi serial when I happened to glance across at the wall.

And saw the bile freezing sight of 8 black furry crinkly tentacles encased in an equally black unevenly tumescent sphere scurrying across the wall. I shuddered from my spine to my toes. I wet my lips, I swallowed and bravely turned back to the T.V, but I could neither forgive not forget the atrocity of sharing my space with this ugly and unwanted tenant.

Being a peaceful sort I generally kick away roaches and insects and chase away smaller bugs and generally ignore the smaller harmless variety of eight legged beasts. But not this
Time!

Spiders were not that useful anyway, and this kind did not even build decent crumbly webs that could be easily brushed away. I knew my foe and that its nest was an ugly sticky white stuff that was near impossible to eradicate.

And what if, horror of horrors, I woke up in the dark and felt uneasy about the spider crawling on my bed, switched on a light – and found that it was indeed less than a foot away, from climbing my foot?

It was time for lethal action and the need of the hour was to morph into Terminator without qualms. I gritted my entire set of mental teeth, and grimly picked up a broomstick and a boot.

It was over in 30 seconds. First with the broomstick I chased the spider down from the high walls to ground level. And then, up went the boot and down, like the piston of a hydraulic pump. The spider was totaled in about 10 more seconds.
I was the cruel and vindictive Timor Lane, victorious and utterly ruthlessly without regrets.

To me the huge garden spider is like a psychological terrorist. In a way I was a tiny part of the global war against terror, even though for all I knew the poor spider probably would have wisely stayed far way from me, as terrified of me as I was of it.

Or not. One cannot live in suspenseful anticipation and that is the terrorists’ calling card, their USP and the reason we are all terrified. Like Harry Potter all wise folks fear only fear itself.

The point is, by thus using my faculty of reasoning and my flair for logic and justice, I not only exhibited and flexed the genotypic muscles of an ancestry of barristers, district judges and land revenue collectors of Bengal, but I also comforted my slight twinge of conscience regarding the dead spider.

Thoughts of venomous saliva and poisonous spider bites also helped!
Simultaneously, I reminded myself that the most successful terrorist is the psycho terrorist! The spider, like Iraq may not have been aware that it was stockpiling psychically explosive ammunition, which would cause its downfall much like Saddam’s.
This is my deposition of the spider incident.

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(c) Amrita Valan 2014