Tap, tap, tap. The familiar rap of Mr Singh’s stick on my kitchen window filters through to the bedroom.
TAP, TAP, TAP, the sense of urgence increasing rousing me from my post work napette. Jeans and Tshirt on, I bleary make my way to the back door.
“Warawak!” he exclaims as he waves his hand.
I look in bewildered amusement at the grass in Mr Singh’s garden.
“Yes it’s looking much better” I offer.
For a week or so now we have been thinking about our respective lawn care methods.
I take the once or twice a week mowing approach, spending ten minutes on the job of cutting and tidying. My Indian neighbor expects the whole plot to have withered and turned to a hard pan as it is the dry season. Thus he takes the twice a year route. The European summer though has once again taken him completely by surprise. The quite unseasonal rain has allowed his grass to grow to a stature that might be referred to as, ‘as high as an elephants eye ‘.
A few days ago he lost both himself and my mower in the jungle that had arisen. He eventually emerged with a sense, if not of triumph over adversity, at least of satisfaction. The sort of satisfaction another fellow might get after arriving at Brighton several hours late but sure in the knowledge that when you know where you are going, a map is superfluous to requirement.
“Warawak”.
The hand waving grows more insistent and draws my attention away from the thick green soup. Then I realize that what he is actually doing is actually waving his hand. It is a primary focus rather than a gesture to divert the attention.
Mr Singh has cut his thumb while gardening.
I proffer a plaster.
“Warawak”?
“Run it under the tap for a little, dry it off, then use the plaster to cover the cut”.
He has the look of a small boy.
He bumbles off to his own kithchen.
