There was this really tiny one bedroom flat of sorts, those that are allotted to people with government jobs. Someone in my close extended family lived in one of those - a family of five. With guests constantly flowing in and out. They lived in a town with good medical amenities so no doubt, there was always one house guest how was seeing a doctor and living with them in the meanwhile. The hall had a small bed and the main bedroom had a giant double bed. Whoever could fit on the beds, did, and sleeping on the floor was a routine thing. And given summers, why not?
There was a tiny kitchen, somewhere in the house, although, it has been too many years for me to re-call, where exactly it was. But there definitely was a kitchen and one sat on the floor and cooked. Now, in the light of the '20's, it all feels very medieval. But there was a kitchen, definitely. And delicacies were constantly dished out. The three school going children had very different tastes, somebody liked deep friend potato fingers, somebody like roasted tomatoes, and somebody like dried fish. And then there were guests. And the absent alcoholic husband, who appeared sober, only rarely, in between very frequent benders.
There was a shelf also somewhere, in the house, either in the hall, or in the corridor, that housed the gods. Tiny photographs of the divine that would save the lot of us. A string of litchi lights adorned the shelf, it looked dreary in the morning, but pretty at nights. Everyday, the middle child, the girl would be woken up early and sent out with a wicker basket hanging on her shoulders. Along with a scream that all the neighbors would have plucked the flowers by then. She would drag herself out of bed, in a half asleep-half dreaming situation, unlock the main door, finding her way amongst those sleeping on the floor and then meander down the stairs.
Mother, who, by then would have taken a bath and have her wet hair wrung and knotted under a towel, would safely assume that her daughter would be completely awake by the time she was downstairs.
The daughter would return in half an hour so, because she met a friend or two on the trail. Her wicker basket would been brimming with moonbeams, with a few red hibiscus. However, the most priced hunt were the canna lilies and she rarely got any. The flat was on the third floor of a rickety paint-less building with five other similar flats, looking over a street. On both sides of that street, there were about a dozen such buildings and the entire colony was gated, although nobody guarded the entrances and exits except stray dogs that barked a lot, but rarely bit.
These canna lilies grew and flowered behind the buildings. Nobody ever went behind the buildings, unless it was it procure these flowers. The drains from the houses, merged behind the buildings. People threw garbage right from their windows and it accumulated behind the buildings in heaps, only growing taller by the day. But there were a few neat patches where these lilies grew. Mostly these were yellow. And sometimes yellow with patches of red and orange which were absolutely gorgeous. So gorgeous, that the gods too would be pleased.
By the time the daughter came back home, the milk man would be standing at the door and their mother would be rattling along about too much water and too little milk. The rush for the the sole toilet in the household would have begun. Everyone wanting go potty at once.
Soon the children would leave for school, the house guests would go to the hospitals and doctors, the husband would leave for office and be there till he felt like drinking again. Everyone would leave alright, but not before chomping on loads of rice and fish curry, which would have been cooked effortlessly before 9 am. Then the flat would be consumed by silence for a few hours. Sometimes the neighbor ladies would come by for a chat. But mostly, not so much.