Much Argue About Nothing

The new tenants on the upper floor seemed to be a noisy sort. The colleges had resumed and all the vacant apartments had been occupied once again.

The first-floor tenants were a bunch of college boys, talking, laughing, dancing, and singing all the time. I love talkative people and always want to keep a safe distance from grumpy ones, but these boys had taken talking to a new high. This rumbunctious sort seemed to be forever yakking away, so much so that their heated debates even sliced through our walls and fell into our already calloused ears, reminding me of what Ogden Nash had written long back:

“They try to get their parties to mix
By supplying their guests with Pogo sticks,
And when their fun at last abates,
They go to the bathroom on roller skates.
I might love the people upstairs more
If only they lived on another floor.”

Despite the Covid norms, the youngsters partied late into the night, and cheery sounds of Happy Birthday kept drifting down from the first floor to the ground floor.

I heard some commotion outside our house at about 6 AM and saw the youngsters staggering down the stairs, still giggling and guffawing with a sort of irreverent freedom. Maybe this was after they had allegedly come back from the bathroom on roller skates.

From my door, I saw eight boys piling into three cars while a pallid moon looked down upon these groggy humans, beaming for a few minutes and then shrugging away the clouds creeping towards it, silently scurrying away. Two cars, carrying three boys each, drove away.

But before the remaining two could climb into their car, they started arguing over something. Within minutes it had snowballed into a full-blown argument, both accusing the other at the top of their voices and poking fingers at each other nose so hard that for a moment I thought if their noses might go flat with all that nudging.

The birds broke into a crescendo of chirps at the gibes and jeers. Friends had turned into foes. Soon people started trickling out of their houses for their morning jog, but the two boys were still in the midst of their morning war of words, glaring at each other in red-eyed belligerence, muttering maledictions.

The sudden chirruping of the feisty birds seemed to infuse the invisible moon with some zest, and it crept out of its lair for some time but soon disappeared again.

The birds were now the masters of the sky, crisscrossing each other in waves upon waves of joyous abandon. With their cheery chirps, they threatened to bring down the gray-blue sky. The cawing conspiracy of a cranky crow failed to dampen the spirited strides of a four-year-old girl and her thirty-year-old father heading towards the park, chattering away, admiring the rustling trees, scampering squirrels, blossoming flowers and the slowly rising sun.

Morning Meanderings is a musings column by Santosh Bakaya

A bruised and battered kite was hanging from the bushes in the adjoining plot, which was surrounded by a wall. This wall used to be the conference wall for the migrant labourers who would squat and chat on it in the pre-Covid days. Without a word to her dad, the child yanked away her hand from her father’s fingers, vaulted over the wall, disentangled the injured kite from the bushes, and with a triumphant grin, ran back to her father, flaunting her catch.

“What will you do with a tattered kite?” Her father asked, curious.

“I will mend it, it will be as good as new.” She remarked with an air of avuncular reassurance, and smiled at her dad, holding the kite close to her tiny heart.

The father smiled too, ruffling her hair.

The eastern sky brightened up, bracing itself for new birth, a triumphant joy in its fresh, golden hues.

When I again looked in the direction of the boys, they were smiling at each other, climbing into the car, eyes fixed on the girl with the tattered kite, waiting for the healing touch. Foes had once again become friends. The much argue about nothing seemed to have reached a happy denouement inspired by the kati patang (torn kite). Probably they realized the futility of all that finger waggling. They waved to her and she also waved with a sort of timorous constraint and then smiled.

Click here to read all episodes of Morning Meanderings Season 2

Don’t Forget to Revisit Morning Meanderings Season 1

About the Author

Santosh Bakaya ( 174 Posts)

Dr Santosh Bakaya is the author of three mystery novels for young adults, and a book of essays titled Flights From My Terrace, which was recently published as an e-book on Smashwords. Her poetic biography of Mahatma Gandhi, Ballad Of Bapu has been published by Vitasta Publishers, Delhi, India in May 2015 and has been receiving rave reviews from everywhere. Although a Political theorist, with a doctorate in political theory, it is literature which has been her first love. She was awarded the Reuel international award for language and literature 2014 for her long poem Oh Hark!, which forms part of the Significant Anthology. Many of her poems have figured in the highly commended category in Destiny Poets, a UK based website and many are part of international anthologies. Right now, she is giving the final touches to her satirical novel, tentatively titled Sanakpur Shenanigans.
All Posts of Santosh Bakaya