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Swami woke up the following day counting his blessings and realised that the tally did add to something that was not insubstantial by any means.
“We have each other for company first,” he told Jigneshbhai and me.
“And I have a boss like Raichand who gave me a week of leave on his own,” he said, recollecting the only positive feature of a not much-loved creature.
“Moreover, I have no unnecessary stress like Purno to make up for a wasted life,” he added, remembering his long-lost friend after a while.
“And no restless dreams like Ishita and Puneet to lose sleep over,” he continued, recalling the lovebirds.
“So, overall, we are in a good place.” The Sunday morning turned out to be bright and sunny even with Swami’s blurry vision.
But visions of abundance are in short supply in Swami’s head. He runs out of them quickly. After a few recollections of plenty, his eyes fall on something that is in short supply. I have realised that, unfortunately, there’s little that I or Jigneshbhai or even Swami himself can do about it. It is just the nature of things. Seeing what’s lacking is not a manufacturing defect. It’s a product feature in the case of Swami.
“But what should we carry to the farmhouse? Food, I am certain we will need to carry, at least some of it,” he started his list. “Shridhar Mama might have a cook but I am not sure.”
“Maybe you can check with him?” Jigneshbhai teased him knowing that another encounter with Shridhar Mama was not Swami’s preference.
“This time you should call him,” Swami retorted with a wink. It was one of the rare occasions when he understood Jigneshbhai’s sarcasm.
“I need my coffee in the morning, so I will carry it. Should we take some idli batter?” Swami asked. Jigneshbhai saw the funny side of it, but Swami didn’t find anything odd with this proposition.
Among the many things towards which Jigneshbhai has a minimalistic attitude, packing was high on the list. Hence, the idea of packing all and sundry was alien to him.
“Why not carry some milk and some sambaar mix? Perhaps even the idli cooker?” He countered Swami’s proposal. This time Swami didn’t get the sarcasm. One catch in a day was enough for him, shooting his lifetime average through the roof.
“That will be too much. I don’t know if we will have a fridge there to store milk. And the cooker is too unwieldy to carry,” he rejected the claim on plain logical grounds.
“Hmmm, then what about your breakfast?” Jigneshbhai teased him further.
There are few things in life as precious as his idli sambaar breakfast for Swami. With an expression on his face that demonstrated the ultimate sacrifice that he had been called upon to make in the interest of convenience, he shrugged his shoulders and said, “Well, one can’t always get everything in life.”
Jigneshbhai and I sighed in appreciation of the great idli breakfast sacrifice by the food martyr.
“As an alternative, we can carry some cheese and bread with us, so we can have sandwiches, if we need to,” Swami found a replacement consolation for his breakfast sacrifice. Jigneshbhai and I wondered whether Shridhar Mama’s farmhouse was so deep in the middle of nowhere that we had to prepare so much. But neither of us had the wherewithal to find out.
“Alright, sounds good,” I said in agreement.
“What else? Clothes and personal stuff?” Swami meanwhile started his list.
“Yes, obviously we can’t skip that,” Jigneshbhai said.
“And maybe some cards or games?”
“Perhaps, I can carry some.”
“Maybe some books to read?”
“Not a bad idea.”
“And don’t forget music for the car journey. I have a collection.”
“Okay.”
“By the way, I need to check my car for petrol and tyres.”
“Alright.”
“Maybe I will get it serviced on Monday.”
“Perfect.”
“One more thing struck me. Should we take my driver Puttuswamy?”
“No need.”
Swami’s brain was in overdrive already. Jigneshbhai tried to get it into lower gear by his monosyllabic single word replies. But when a rocket reaches a certain escape velocity (isn’t that what they call it when they launch space missions?), then gravity cannot pull it down. It has a self-sustaining power that lets it move ahead. Swami’s packing rocket had reached that escape velocity. Jigneshbhai and I were mere observers from earth watching it fly. And he wasn’t done yet.
“And, by the way, pack the toothpaste and toothbrush and all the toiletries last,” Swami’s standard operating procedure for packing continued.
“I pack it all together and every time I wonder if I have packed it or not and then search for it everywhere. And then I realise I have packed it. And then on the day of the journey I have to unpack it again as I have to use it. And then on the journey, I wonder if I repacked it or not. And so I ask my hotel to give me a set. And finally, when I reach midway into my suitcase after a couple of days, I find it – there it is hiding all the while.”
Phew! Yesterday we got tired after Shridhar Mama’s pompous talk. And today the same talking genes in his nephew tired us again with an overdose. Swami spoke like a man who, after losing his voice, suddenly rediscovers it and realises that there’s a limited time within which to use it before it will go again.
“Okay, got it,” Jigneshbhai and I complied, and mentally made a note of packing our toothbrush last.
“And yes, I remembered,” Swami charged. “Do we need sports shoes? And an additional set of sandals?” he asked. Jigneshbhai and I twiddled our fingers.
“We don’t plan to go anywhere else,” Jigneshbhai said. He tried to evade the proposal to pack extra footwear.
“Yeah, but just in case,” Swami argued for a remote possibility.
“Alright,” Jigneshbhai said. His dream of a peaceful getaway was on pause. The nightmare of Swami pulling him for a run in sports shoes had shattered it.
“And if we carry sports shoes, then we might as well carry some badminton racquets and shuttle. There’s a lot of space at the farmhouse, I recollect,” Swami added.
One thing leads to another in packing. It is called the network multiplier effect.
“Hmm, maybe,” Jigneshbhai acquiesced with reluctance. His idea of minimalistic packing went out of the window.
“Yeah. And I am thinking of some basic medicines like pain spray or painkillers? And some basic paracetamol and tablets for indigestion?” It was fruitless to stand in the way of a packing tsunami.
Jigneshbhai and I stayed silent. “Don’t worry, I will carry them. We don’t want to end up with a sprain after a game of badminton, or an upset stomach after a sumptuous meal. Isn’t it?” Swami had thought of all possibilities. It was hard to argue against such a need. Everything seemed logical.
“Good, what else?” Swami asked.
“There’s more?” Jigneshbhai checked his uncharacteristic rising temperature.
“I guess we don’t need any warm clothes?” Swami had a doubt.
“We are going to a place three hours from Ghatembur. Not the Himalayas.” A man of tremendous patience, Jigneshbhai showed the first sign of some despair.
“Yeah, I know. We are thinking too much,” Swami said and dropped the idea. “But I am missing something,” he added.
“I am sure you will not miss anything. Except some peace,” Jigneshbhai said, this time with an irritated scowl.
But Swami’s head was on its own trip.
“Yes, now I remember. We need a camera. We need to create memories!” He said with a wave of excitement. Jigneshbhai tried to pour some cold water over it. “We have our phones for it.”
“But we are near nature. So, we need one good camera for some good shots. I will carry my DSLR,” Swami declared. It was another of his toys he had got and not used much later. “The amateur photographer feels professional with this toy,” Jigneshbhai had told me once on an earlier trip somewhere.
“And I will get one lens for a long shot and one for a closer one. Should I get my tripod? No, let it be.” Swami had his accessories also ready for packing.
“What else?” Jigneshbhai asked this time in a tone of despondency. “I am sure we are missing something else.” An air of inexplicable melancholy surrounded the normally cheerful man.
“Yeah,” Swami didn’t get the sarcasm though.
I had read somewhere that when a person gets a sudden shock to his peaceful existence, he goes through phases of denial and anger till he accepts the inevitable. I wondered where Jigneshbhai was in this cycle, currently.
“Sunglasses and caps, and a water bottle?” Swami said, snapping his fingers. Our friend had moved from warm clothes to heat protection.
“Okay,” Jigneshbhai had given up all hopes of recovery by now. It looked like he had now accepted the inevitable new reality of his life. He was back to his peaceful self after a brief phase of turbulence.
“That is it, I guess,” Swami finally relented. Jigneshbhai and I heaved a sigh of relief. With the packing out of the way, we were all set.
Well, the packing turned out to be a bit more stressful than expected. But Jigneshbhai and I told ourselves that once we got there, it was going to be a few days of calm, peace, and rest. That’s what we thought. In hindsight, I can now see that we were a tad too optimistic.
***