Serendipity

Serendipity is an irksome word. It hits when one is not looking for anything specific. A low buzz in the ears as the aircraft promises to land and the landscape out there becomes small scratches of painted green and grey.   The familiar landscape appears without a face. The  structures.  The corridor is an intruder . It takes away from things palpable and sure; the green walls of a suburban  Kolkata flat , the low brow cane furniture and the unfixed lampshades. At the corner stands a CD player, a few long lost discs with gems from Tagore and other innocuous objects. The bedroom with a discarded housecoat hanging limp from the bed.  “Just wash this and fold it up for my next visit” were the last words to the maid who stands at the door waiting to say her goodbye in her rural way: “Come back as soon as you can; you come and go, before I know. I shall keep your home”. That’s all.  The teapot on the kitchen counter has developed a crack. It won’t be needed for another eleven months.  A few books, read and set aside to be shared with friends on the next visit is the last glimpse before the doors are closed and locked.

***
Now it is a different space. A security personnel in black uniform examines the immigration card and beams at a tired puzzled face . “Welcome home,  Madam. Bienvenue au Canada !”

Yes, true. The cabby is Lebanese.
–“Belleview Drive, please, take Exit 138”
–Yes, Madam, I know that area but you know better; it is your home.” And a friendly guffaw.
That is the second time she heard the word. Incredulousness. The hanging balcony that overlooked the garden with banyan trees was home. The teaspoon has been left unwashed on a teabag holder, she remembers. The glass on the dining table needed polishing.
The strong voice behind the wheel continues … Madam is from India? He knows India. He has many Punjabi friends and has been to Bombay and Delhi, not Calcutta…that is the oldest British city, right? He wishes to visit Kashmir and see a Punjabi wedding.
“Really ?” she didn’t want to startle  him with silence.
Yes, and he also collects Indian currency. He fishes out a wallet with a plastic wrap and turns his face sideways holding the wallet up:  “I need a fifty rupee note. I  have  all sorts including a couple of thousands,  but no fifty. ”
There is probably one in her purse; she  opens it and gets the last one out: “Here, take it, you’re lucky!”

The face of Gandhi on the Indian rupees makes him happy, he says. “He is international, you know, Madam? More worshipped in the West that in his own land?”

She greets the words with a wan smile. Yes, she knows. History gone postcolonial and the fast fading national context in the shape of a toothless smiling face.  The Father of a Bustling Nation.

***

Queensway is busy in the afternoon, wonder why.  The eyes are alert for Exit 138.
“ Next Exit, please!”.
“Yes, madam, I know. Casselfrank Road and then turn right on Hazeldean Road”

The cab wheezes into the driveway. The grey house walled in by green.
“You are home, Madam”
The Visa card had not been touched in the last so many days. What is the code?

The afternoon is still in a sedate neighborhood. The keys.  The open doors. The empty eyes stare at a half familiar canvas. The Chinese painting on the wall. The couch meant to sit guests struggling with heavy boots in winter. The faux-antic mirror in the landing.
The kitchen counter is cluttered. She frowns. She turns her eyes at the plants. And puts her index in one of the pots. Humid and moist. The stove top is clean. The furniture well dusted.   Lisa was a good choice, clean and trustworthy.

It is three in the afternoon. Consciousness descending slowly through a fog.
Time for a come back. Time to stretch out the  hands to things discarded and forgotten .
Home and hearth… why are truths so banal and evasive? As she settles down on the couch and reaches out for the freshly made cup of tea, she smiles.
Midnight in Kolkata
The rose bushes need pruning.