When little things mean a lot

A generation that is now finding it difficult to walk may recall swaying to the soul-stirring words of the 1950s song Little Things Mean a Lot. For the young at heart and the romantic among us, there's so much truth in those few lines, and even those who scorn all things sentimental will find it applicable to everyday situations.

Recently, a young man was about to embark on his first job in a distant city. He was to set up house for himself, live on his own, fend for himself. After years of staying in a hostel all intentions of being independent were disregarded.

Everyone thought he'd been "cared for" since he could walk down to the dining room along with a couple hundred others to share the meals none of them particularly enjoyed. And there were centralised arrangements for laundry and cleaning and other things that are taken so much for granted at home. Now he'd have to do all this on his own. A big step, indeed.

Lists were made to the last, most minute detail. Suggestions were bandied about how he should arrange his meals to ensure good home food is at his doorstep.

The young man lounged about while those around him scurried here and there with a worried air, piling up linen and dishes and plates and cutlery, crossing them off the all-important list, then going to get the next item.

"Remember the little things," everyone advised. "The broom, the dust pan, the knives, the paper napkins. They may seem the least important, but when you need them suddenly you may not be in a position to go running to a store to get them." He, cocky, self-assured, confident, knew that nothing would be missing. He'd counted on these same people all his life - they would sort it all out and iron out the edges as well. It had happened never-failingly over the years. The future would be no different.

At last it was all done - everyone was harried and exhausted, but absolutely sure that when he opened up his suitcases and put everything in its place, he'd have the perfect start to his working life. And so he set out jauntily, not a care in the world, absolutely sure that he'd manage his home perfectly - he was ready to delegate, as he always did, and there was always house help around to take up the nitty-gritty so he could stay on an even keel.

Lucky guy - he didn't even have to unpack. His constant bulwarks accompanied him to the new place. They opened up the boxes, they stocked his cupboards, they cleaned and polished and hung curtains. And when at last the home was setup with every last pin in place, they decided that they'd enjoy the thrill of a candlelit first meal in the young man's house - since the lights were out and all they had was a spanking new torch.

With great aplomb the young master of the house took out a selection of canned food - the easiest option at this juncture with everyone hungry and no time to start from scratch. Just open the cans, heat the contents, light the candles and voila, his first foray in the kitchen would be a culinary delight.

He pulled out the plates, he spread butter on the slices of bread. He looked in the neatly arranged drawer for the can opener and the match box ... he checked, he rechecked, he searched high and low with no success. At last, sheepishly, he came out to the torch-lit dining room, bread and butter piled high on the plates, and they tucked into a meal that would be fodder for the family fund of tales.

Cheryl Rao is a journalist based in India.