If long weekends came in garment sizes, the most recent one would have been an L. You don’t need an XL or an XXL, ballooning out into Thursday, Monday and more, to see a predictable exodus that empties the city’s streets. When we took up an old friend’s standing invitation, we came to realise that you don’t need to go too far or stay for too long to get away from it all. Drive for an hour, relax for twenty-four. Holidays come in Size S too.
One’s expectations from a vacation vary, depending on one’s age, agility and temperament. Some people book tickets and hotel rooms, go shopping or sightseeing. Some trek in the wilds, others pray in the hills. Me, all I want is to let my engine idle, give those wheels a rest. A staycation (which I once wrote about) would have been perfectly adequate, but this time we chose to stay in another’s house instead of our own. Bangalore’s streets had reverted to 1980s mode, and as we crossed our last traffic signal the road got narrower and the shops smaller. In ten minutes the buildings had thinned out and our eyes met a ‘country’ landscape. Brick kilns, scrub land, a mud road. Veering off it we bumped across field and furrow to enter the gates of the house and park next to a tractor.
For it was a farmhouse. Before you get the wrong idea let me point out that ‘farm’ is the operative word; the house is incidental. No velvet lawns, silken-smooth walls, elegant furnishings or poolside parties here. It’s a genuine, working estate and we were just passers-by temporarily sucked into its steady rhythm. Like the house of some old relative in a village of your childhood, it said, “Take me as I am. Do whatever you can to make yourself at home.” Unpolished clay tile floors, high ceilings with unused fans, front and back doors left ajar, not a curtain in sight. In short: just my cup of kaafi.
“No traffic noise,” we murmur as we sit on the parapet in the veranda and listen to invisible birds. Can’t believe this place has a five-six-zero pin code. Indoors there are a set of comfy bamboo sofas, haphazardly dumped wooden furniture (clearly family relics), a basic dining table and chairs, a kitchen stocked with random utensils, and beds with pillows of many sizes and consistencies. We fish out plastic chairs from a miscellaneous selection in a corner and carry them to the veranda.
Peace. Time, like the clock in our bedroom, stands still. A bird calls “Do it, do it”. Don’t feel like doing anything, actually. Another cries, “Wicked, wicked.” That’s more my style. Time expands. I stare into the sky. Once in a way a plane drones overhead, and from the direction in which it flies we guess whether it’s going to Chennai or Kochi or Hyderabad. Such are the pastimes of jobless minds. I examine the garden-a vegetable patch dominating ornamental plants. A purple sunbird dips its beak into the half-open buds of orange cactus flowers. An over-ripe bhendi hangs from a vine clambering over a trellis of sticks. For the first time in my life I see yam plants. Next to them is a betel vine, the leaf similar to that of pepper, only lighter, with a pinkish stem.
We take a stroll across the estate amid the teaks and silver oaks. Drip irrigation conserves water drawn from a swimming pool used purely as a storage tank and covered with a blue tarp to prevent dry leaves from falling in. Our companions are two native dogs which remain outside the house and do not mingle with the two half-breed ‘inside’ dogs. They strictly confine themselves to their territory and when they are face to face at the perimeter they bark and keep each at paw’s length. At lunch time the caretaker’s wife sends over soft, thin, dry chapathis, rice, curd and sambar. On the side we have gooseberry chutney and the miracles she has worked with tender drumstick and pepper, with bittergourd and jaggery and gram dal.
A nap, tea and an evening walk: isn’t that how it should go? It does, but our walk lacks the city dweller’s calorie-burning briskness; we amble across the open fields. A long rat snake crawls in the distance. A pair of birds keeps crying and flying in circles above us; they’re trying to scare us away from their nest of fledglings in a thorny bush. Birds of many colours settle in flocks on treetops. We return to the verandah like homing pigeons. Mosquitoes arrive at dusk and we hastily go indoors but discover, an hour later, that they have politely departed. No need for fan, nets or repellent at night. Fall asleep to the faint croaking of frogs.
Waking up unusually early, we explore the terrace and get a bird’s eye view of the place. After coming down for morning tea we see that the brick hearth in the dining room is being lit with firewood. Magically, there is now hot water in the bathroom tap. A casserole of paddu with chutney awaits us. One last stroll takes us hunting for pumpkins and gourds that we can take home.
Back we go to the core of the city. But our mouths hold a fresh slice of country to chew on.
