Thambiah, whose visit to my flat is as unpredictable as a sneeze, dropped in this morning dressed in crisp ‘minister white’ dhoti and a roomy shirt. I could guess the object of his visit. Like Lord Rama having one word, one arrow and one wife, he settles for only one calendar, that too, the 12-sheet variety distributed by a particular nationalised bank.
Since he is not the type who could harness any suspense, I gave him the calendar of his choice. I had neatly rolled it; a rubber band maintained the cylindrical shape. He opened it with delight; his eyes lit up like a kid opening a birthday gift. “One wit had wisecracked about a calendar. It’s days are numbered. Nevertheless, a new one printed on map litho sheets warms the cockles of my heart,” said Thambiah. He riffled through the sheets to make sure all the 12 months were intact. He raised it to his nose for an intake of its smell of freshness.
“Till recently this bank had allotted one month per sheet. But maybe due to cost-cutting, the sheets are being printed back-to-back, December riding piggyback over January. It is indeed philosophical and a forewarning that the beginning indeed coexists with the end, reminding one about the certainty about mortality. A calendar reminds me that one more year has been granted by the benevolence of our Maker, not merely to exist, but to live in this world, without frittering away the 365 days.”
Thambiah continued firing on all four cylinders. “Did you know I follow a strict regimen in dealing with a calendar? Well, I get up at the stroke of 12. Pray for a few minutes that the new year ahead should pass with the smoothness with which a boisterous child would come down a slide.
I will remove the old one and ceremoniously hang the new one. This bank’s calendar is printed with grids, each date appearing in a box. It will be convenient for me to cross out the previous date with a blue permanent marker pen, so today’s date can be known at a glance. I also ink in red important dates not to be missed, like the wife’s birthday and wedding anniversary. Most husbands perilously forget these days due what psychologists call retention or recall amnesia. God save them!”
Thambiah stood up, with the calendar. “I will have you know,” he said rather grandly, “I cannot be tempted with any other calendar—even if it were Vijay Mallya’s flagship Kingfisher’s, with 12 sky-clad, eye candies.” He winked broadly, I laughed. “Says you! My doc told me to go easy on salt, but I will take your blatant lie, no, not with a pinch but spoonful!”
J S Raghavan
Email: writerjsr@gmail.com