When life is a circus, can a circus tent be far behind? That’s what I tell myself every day as I come back from work and walk into the home. It helps me cope. You see, as soon as I walk into our modest home, apart from a heavily used sofa set (on which I seldom find place to sit when I want to), and a dining table (which has not an inch of real estate to spare, with the father claiming it as his office), one also finds a red circus tent with a clown inside.
It was meant to be a fortress — a haven of peace and quiet in a noisy world.
It all started with a sales pitch one evening. The elementary-school going son was trying to sell me a fort. The little fellow was going the salesman on me. I suppose it is frustrating if a customer does not bite.
The evening sun was shining on his eager face and his voice chirruped louder than the birds. Folks stopped by to see what the furore was about, and wondered why I was being unreasonable about buying a fort.
Before one runs off with the idea that I buy forts and palaces in my spare time, I must assure you that the fort was going to be engineered with paper, and tape borrowed from, that’s right, from me. I poked holes at the plan dubiously, and tried telling him the obvious answer, “I don’t need a fort!”
“You said you didn’t need that sheet set, but you bought it, and now you like it. Like that, once you buy the fort, you will like it,” he said.
Fair point, but I got to tell you, a sheet set and a fort are not quite the same things. “But I am quite happy in our house, why would I need a fort?” I asked.
“It is your own place to sit, and relax and do stuff, Amma.” Painted that way, the fort did seem appealing. I mean I do crave for a little quiet every now and then. A fort that is my own, in the midst of all the everyday drama of life sounded marvelous. “But where will you build the fort?”
“Inside the house, of course!” said the architect, and I quailed. The house is barely big enough for our needs. I certainly don’t have the kind of spare real estate required to build forts in them.
But the little beaver would not back down. “It will upgrade our house. Remember, you gave that man money to put tiles in the bathroom? He upgraded the bathroom, right? Like that, I will build you a fort and upgrade the house.”
An impasse
This discussion went on for a bit, and things reached an impasse. I hoped the passage of time would make him forget and so on, but I should have known better. When fate socks me, it socks me with a big red flapping hand.
Imagine my chagrin when a couple of days later, his sister trooped home with a surprise for the beaver.
“Your very own tent – ta da da!” proclaimed his protective sister, and revealed a big portable red-and-white circus tent. The fellow hugged her as hard as he could. He invited us into his tent, and it was soon forgotten that the tent was supposed to be made for me.
So, now there he sits at every opportunity he gets. Last night I found in the tent a pillow I’d been looking for: he took it in there to lie down and read a book.
Interior designers may shudder at the aesthetics of it, but the clown inside is immensely happy. It reminds me of the poem, ‘Solitude’, by Lewis Carroll on childhood:
I ’d give all wealth that
years have piled,
The slow result of Life’s
decay,
To be once more a little
child
For one bright
summer-day.
saumya.bala@gmail.com
