Count your blessings

Right In The Middle

Optimism thy name is my dearest hubby. Stoic to a fault. Nothing and no one can dampen his spirits however extenuating the circumstances. The whole sky can collapse but our homegrown Buddha will say: “Count your blessings".

Government service can lift you to head-turning highs and throw you down to embarrassing lows. After having lived in a palatial bungalow set in one and a half acres of land, surrounded by lush green vegetables and fruit-laden trees, we were thrown right into the heat and dust of the national capital. I was more than sceptical about how we would manage our administrative concerns, but my husband said: “Who gets to live in the national capital. It is the centre of power after all”. I could not see what was the connection between us and power but refrained to comment. The only power, I could think of was the fat power bills we would have to pay for the air conditioners and heaters we would be forced to use to combat the weather right through the year.

We were allotted a two-room-and-kitchen set. Rats and snakes had made their home before us and had the right of way. The sound of rats doing a midnight dance between the false ceilings kept me up most nights. The seepage made modern art designs on the wall. The branches of a nearby peepal tree had made inroads into the house through cracks in the false roof. When I was at my wit's end and reported to my husband, he cheerily remarked, “count your blessings wifey, we have a roof over our heads at least, how many people in our country, have a roof over their heads.

After an agonising wait, we were finally allotted accommodation in a supposedly elite neighbourhood of the town. Now came the most taxing part. Our house was a big bag of troubles right from the word go, an antediluvian wiring would only allow and support two electrical appliances at a time. Plaster peeling off the walls, flushes not working, air-locked taps, clogged drains et al. Before I could even complain my husband pointed out that our house was one of the architectural marvels of the colony.

One late evening my husband came out looking like a thunder cloud. He raved and ranted that my beagle (who is no angle by the way), had knocked over my husband's bedtime hot chocolate over his important file. At last, my husband got his comeuppance. I remarked, "don’t fret dear, count your blessings, the poor boy hasn’t torn the file, the papers can always be dried."