For the last couple of days my home has become the hopeless temple of doom. The furniture has been disheveled and paintings torn down and the curtains stripped.
All in the effort of giving the walls a fresh coat of paint.
The icing, is that the painters speak ONLY Tamil and completely ignore my mother’s desperate appeal for sense in this chaotic madness. They go about their work with a sense of purposeful glee putting my mother’s years of good housekeeping in absolute disarray.
With the rising dust, there is also my father’s rising temper to deal with. His tolerance for ‘unsettling’ situation like this is zilch. So my poor mother is caught between the thumb-sticking painting crew who take deliberate pleasure in turning to dust my mother’s years of hard work and my father who is as agitated as a fizzy drink in a shaker.
As for me, I head home barricading myself with a rare stoicism and the determination to resurrect my abode once again from the heaps of rubble and paint-splotched dust.
But still I lust for a handsome painter who would sweep me off my feet and dust me away gently....sigh!