My neighbour on the left-hand side, Parthiv’s penchant for singing, in the not-too-distant past, always left me feeling uncomfortably numb. Readers of this column will have learned how my prankster friend Barney managed to tactfully dissuade Parthiv from lending his vocal chords so generously to all and sundry, but to seek refuge behind a pair of headphones and resort to some synchronised head-swinging and lip-synching.
This state of affairs has continued happily for everyone in the vicinity. So, on the music score, there’s nothing of note to report.
However, Parthiv (he may have discovered this himself if he’s one who engages in a process of self-examination in front of an honest mirror) finds it a trifle difficult to keep himself out of the spotlight. Mr. Desi Bell (as Barney refers to him in code, given the volume at which he’s likely to greet or converse with others) is now engaged in silent conflict with the neighbour that lives just above him in Unit 4.
To understand the context of this bout of cold war, one has to first be informed of the fact that Parthiv works five days a week at a company where the work crew — at best — is fractious. Everyone, as he has once said, is on pins and needles or balanced on an edge — their tempers frayed and it doesn’t take much provocation for anybody to get under anybody else’s skin. Heated debates, even hotter arguments, teetering on the brink of a good old brawl, highlight any given day’s work. Adjectives — of the unprintable genre — fly around like poisonous darts and if one happens to have a thin, sensitive epidermis well then, too bad, you’d better coax some thickness into it.
“Are you all right?” is one of the calmer sounding utterances. It is, nevertheless, a dangerous prelude to a string of vitriol, especially if the sentence is coated liberally with sarcasm.
So, last week, when his wife — Mrs Parthiv, as she is known to all of us — left to spend the night at a girl friend’s place, Parthiv suddenly found himself somewhat adrift in the culinary department. As he has confessed: “Mrs Parthiv is the cook, I’m the washupperer.”
So with cooking not his strongest suit, in went Parthiv at four in the morning to the kitchen, to prepare a breakfast of what he thought would be well within his limited skills-range: Scrambled eggs.
And while that was being done — on a slow simmer — some toast on the side. And while that was arriving at the browning stage, he’d slip in to the bathroom, grab a shower, come out fresh and presto, breakfast would be waiting.
Once in the shower, we will never know the truth, but Barney reckons the incurable desire to burst into song and sing it to its conclusion must have overcome Parthiv, for when he emerged modestly wrapped in a towel, he found that he couldn’t find the kitchen. He’d lost his bearings. He was like a man trapped in a fog with visibility down to near zero.
And the smoke alarm was going ballistic, which is the evidence Barney needed to conclude Parthiv must have been singing in the shower or he’d have heard the alarm beeping even over the sound of running water.
Anyhow, it takes only a fraction of a minute to realise something went seriously amiss in planning breakfast. Survival instinct kicks in rapidly.
Into the bedroom dashed Parthiv, fetched the giant bedside fan, plugged it into the kitchen socket and turned it on to dispel the smoke.
Meanwhile there’s this pounding on the door which, when opened, revealed the querulous face of the man from upstairs — Mr O., from Unit 4 — asking the dreaded question, “Are you all right?”
Parthiv, probably fearing a mighty verbal assault, slammed the door in Mr O’s face.
Mr O., on the other hand, felt his caring neighbourliness earned him a resounding slap. Each of them now feels offended — for the wrong reason.
Kevin Martin is a journalist based in Sydney, Australia.
