Hue and cry

IT IS a satisfying experience to move into your new home, even though it might have taken up most of your life's savings and terminal benefits. The sense of satisfaction was on stilts of pleasure, as it were, brought about by bright walls, windows, doors and the ceiling, to the accompaniment of the fresh smell of paint.

With activities limited to the morning constitutional walk thanks to advancing age and also dictates of monetary constraints, watching TV was the most occupying pastime. My wife was happy that I was around to do some odd jobs, and I was happy as most of the household chores could be carried out while watching TV.

A whole lot of serials interspersed with ads kept me occupied. I adopted an attitude of 'active indifference' when it came to the ads, which appeared in between the serials. I take these ads in my stride like we do the summer in Chennai. There is, therefore, not much of an impact these ads have on me.

To make this concept work in an assured way, I let my imagination run wild on seeing or rather hearing some of the ad jingles. One ad for paints goes thus... "Think of us whenever you see colour".

Instantly, I think of all the girls in my class when I was in college in the 1950s. Another woman shrieks with glee at her husband, "Mera wala pink", touting for another brand. This brings to mind Peter Sellers' Pink Panther or to be more current, the funky Pink Floyd.

While I was cruising along nice and fine hardly realising that I had been living in the house for nearly eight years, my wife happened to spot a 'saram' suspended from one of the walls of my neighbour's house, one day.

The workmen seated on the 'saram' were executing brisk strokes with their paintbrush with a flourish of a Zubin Mehta with his baton. Evidently, the painting inside the house was already over. My wife was almost excited and started nagging me that we follow suit. Admittedly, in these eight years, the paint on our walls had indeed faded and in some places, peeled off.

Not that I was not concerned about my walls, windows and doors. But then, it costs quite a packet which has made such an exercise a seven-year itch instead of the annual Pongal cleaning it was for our ancestors. My wife was fuelled further when a distant cousin of hers on one of her rare visits, squinted her eyes in displeasure at the near eyesore walls and woodwork, and took leave with a parting shot that she takes care of her walls once in two years.

Only recently she undertook the operation, which was not too bothersome according to her. "Why", she said, "driving to George Town to purchase the materials along with the painter was quite a pleasant experience, besides the satisfaction of getting them at even less than wholesale prices."

She literally left quite a blazing trial and in the process my wife's nag graduated to a demand before becoming an ultimatum.

Now, she had two path finders for me - my neighbour and her cousin, quite forgetting the fact that both of them have fairly well-placed children settled abroad, who can chip in for the outlays.

With her taunts sometimes progressing into tantrums, it soon dawned on me that Operation Whitewash was inescapable.

Apart from the monetary aspect, equally niggling was my ignorance about the technical side of the operation. I can hardly distinguish a distemper on the walls from the one connected with dogs. So to say, my only brush (pardon the unintended pun) with paint or 'gobi' as whitewash is often called, was when I had tell-tale marks of fresh paint on my person and dress, much to the annoyance of my mother.

So I reached for the almanac for all ailments - the Yellow Pages- to call names like Vibgyor, Rangila and Panchavarnam... all contractors connected with the trade. None of them turned up. That was when a collegemate came to my rescue. He sent a painter who gave an estimate which satisfied my wife.

Accompanied by my friend and the painter, I went shopping for paint.

The little shop that I was taken to, was crowded with tins, brooms, bricks and customers. The shopkeeper recognised my friend and invited us behind the counter. As there was no place to sit, we were shown two paint tins and asked to sit down. We then handed him the list of items which we needed. He went through the list silently, nodding at my friend's appeal to go easy on the prices. The final tally of the total amount did not give me any hope of my bank account being in any semblance of balance, by the end of it!

When the shopkeeper asked me for the shade for the wall, I was confused. He then pushed a shade card in front of me. I had never seen so many colours in one place before. Anyway, I looked at the painter and asked with worked up authority "Why not the existing colours?" The painter agreed and the transaction was over.

The materials were loaded into the vehicle and I was ready to leave when the shopkeeper, who was on the telephone, signalled us to wait.

It transpired that the cause of delay was "computer-synthesising" of a shade of oil-based distemper included in the list. This was yet another enlightening aspect as I was used to the crude hand- mixing done by painters of yore.

When it was all over, I drove back with a sense of satisfaction a la Alibaba who walked out of the bandits' cave loaded with treasure.

For the present, I was happy with the 'hue', deferring the 'cry' to a little later when the pecuniary problems present themselves!

T.L. RAGHAVAN

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