Saga of a summer night

Summer is here and so is the heat. This is the time of the year when people plan to sleep on terraces either because they have no a.c (maybe it has conked) or simply enjoy the starlit sky. At Chennai where I live this idea is hugely popular. So much so that even people with a.cs (not conked) head for the terrace too. It was kinda nice to sleep with no ceiling over our heads and have stars for night lamps. But I guess not everyone’s that lucky. There’s this guy who apparently wanted to share my experience but got different.

In his memorable “A Night Among the Pines”, the great essayist, Robert Louis Stevenson, wrote about the pleasures of sleeping under the stars. Stevenson was fond of camping out, waking up at 2am, gazing at the starlit sky and falling into a refreshing slumber again.
So, too, are many Indians. During the summer months in Ahmedabad, where I live, when darkness falls, everyone makes a beeline for terraces, balconies or the open spaces in front of their homes.
In our home we start debating when to make the move to the terrace as soon as the heat begins and the fans have to be kept on all night. Being of a scientific bent of mind, I turn down suggestions to consult the family astrologer. “Let’s start right away”, I say. My three-year-old daughter backs me.
“Shouldn’t we wait for a few more days?” asks my wife. “There’s still a slight dew fall in the mornings and we may catch a chill.”
My skepticism about ahmedabad ever having a dew fall in summer doesn’t move her. “If the child or I fall ill, are you going to stay home and look after us?” she asks. A slanging match begins. Tears flow. I give in.
But even after the dew disappears and my wife gives me ths green light, problems arise. What type of bedrolls should we take to the terrace? “The lighter razais,” I suggest. “Mattresses are too cumbersome to be carried up and down daily.” My wife gives me e freezing look (incorporating into that look all that dew): “Do you want me to wake up everyday with a backache?”
However, I’m the one who gets the backache, carrying bucket after bucket of water to wash the terraces. The place attracts so much dust and dirt that I’m sure Hercules had an easier time with the Augean stables.
Finally it is time to go up. Holding the heavy mattresses in a tight embrace, it is difficult to see where I’m going. I clump up the stairs like a blinded Samson in the temple of the Philistines. When I slip and fall, my wife reprimands me for using “that kind of language” in front of our daughter.
I am positive that Hillary and Norgay became expert mountaineers only after practicing carrying their bedrolls up steeply built stairs. It develops the back and shoulder muscles and is also good exercise for budding fast bowlers.
By the time she finishes narrating a recent incident on an adjoining terrace where a strange-looking insect was reported to have gone into the ear of a sleeping neighbor and come out through the other, I can see bugs everywhere. But my ordeal has just begun. As soon as I rest my aching back on the soft bed, comes the query: “Is the front door locked? What about the windows? Be my angel and check again.” My thoughts, though, as I re-secure the windows and doors, are far from angelic.
By now things are happening on the near-by terraces. The occupant of one suffers from insomnia and switches on a bright reading lamp. By some optical quirk, the rays light up my pillow, so I have no alternative but to cover myself completely. So much for the starlit sky, but perhaps refreshing slumber still awaits me?
From another terrace comes the sound of vibrant pop music. That ends and I heave a sigh of relief. But I have not reckoned with the west indies vs India test match at Barbados. Buffeted by the voices of the commentators and the shrieks of the spectators, I begin to understand what it is like to be a cricket ball. Then the newly married couple in the next building, blissfully ignorant that their windows are open and the curtains are not drawn, provide their special distraction.
At last, it is quiet. My eyes slowly close. But the street dogs take over, singing solo or in chorus. As the canine grand opera moves towards its finale, I realize with a start that it’s nearly 3am. The final actor in this drama is the milkman with his rich baritone and jingling his cycle bell. The dogs greet his entrance with another overture. The night is over.
I envy Stevenson for his night among the pines. But had he shared my experience, he would have written something quite different.