Sweeping Times

               Sri Husband saw me packing my purse and bag.

“Where are you going?” he asked.

“A party,” I told him. “I have some fancy friends, you know.”

“What kind of party clothes are those?” he asked. “You are wearing faded trousers and a very old blouse with rubber chappals.”

“Trendy stuff,” I said. “Ordered them online. Why are you looking like that? Remember, when you were in college, faded jeans and t-shirts broke the fashion mould? Now this is the new chic.”

“You bought this… these crumbled, worn-out things?”

“Paid a fortune for them. There’s more. Remember you cribbed about the shopping-bill yesterday?”

“Yes, you bought disposable masks and rubber-gloves, some cleaning-powder, a couple of brooms, swab-cloths, floor-mops, cobweb-cleaners… you’re a housework-challenged person. I was impressed,” he answered.

Silence. No point telling him the vhauradi look is in. He wouldn’t understand. 

The silence stretched. He broke it: “What’s the connection between the shopping and this party of yours?”

               Ai Saibaa, this man is so slow. Doesn’t he read the papers or watch television?  Carefully I explained to him: “It’s a Swatccha Bharat campaign party. Anyone who’s a someone is now into sweeping neighbourhoods. Even the Ambanis and Bollywood stars…”

               “Which of those are your friends?” Sri Husband wanted to know.

I ignored the barb and continued: “Everyone’s throwing swatccha bharat parties now. You have to dress the part, wear comfortable old clothes, buy some if you don’t have any, and the accessories to go with them.”

“You mean the rubber-gloves and dust-pans are the accessories?”

The tube-light had paytoed.  I nodded appreciatively. “Ye-es. We wear some things, like the mask and the gloves and wield some, like the broom and the mop.”

“Considering the many people who attend these parties aren’t familiar with the use of the equipment, or at least aren’t in practice, do you also have training sessions on how to use the jhaadoo or the get the best out of your pocha?”

“But of course. The more enterprising have already started conducting jhaadoo-pocha classes. And there are certificate-courses for garbage-management. Fees for everything, including PR with the media.”

“Big word that, garbage-management,” said Sri Husband, menace creeping into his tone.

               Very cautiously I asked: “Why do you say that? What do you mean?”

               “It’s nice that your friends are having sweeping sessions outside their gates, taking selfies for posterity, and contributing to the PM’s campaign, but how about reducing the garbage?”

               “Means?” I knew he’d come up with some complication.

               “The three R’s,” he said.

               “I know,” I responded condescendingly, “Reading, ‘riting and ‘rithmatic.”

               “That’s old,” he snapped. “It’s Reduce, Reuse and Recycle. Reduce your garbage, reuse whatever you can and recycle the rest.”

               “How do I reduce the garbage? Eat fruit peels and egg-shells?” Silly man.

               “You’re the one that’s being silly,” he said. I think the man can read my mind. “Nope, what you can do is to stop using plastic bags. You can use those lovely cloth and straw ones that you keep buying. Carry your own water wherever you go so you don’t need to keep buying and discarding plastic bottles. And if you do need to bring all that plastic into your house, at lease reuse it for storing things.”

               Lecture­-baazi shuroo. “As if,” I countered, “people abroad don’t use plastic. See how clean their countries are.”

               “Let’s concentrate on our neighbourhoods at the moment,” Sri Husband counter-countered. “And talk about other countries later.”

               “Ok,” I said, as if I had any choice in the matter, he was going to talk anyway.

               “Your friends buy compost for their pots and gardens, why can’t they make some themselves? They just need to put their kitchen natural waste into a hole in the ground or in a container if they live in a flat.”

               “As if it’s that easy,” I said.

               “Nothing’s easy,” Sri Husband’s quarrelsome mood got revived. “You want a swatccha Goa, you have to take some trouble. Separating dry waste from wet isn’t a big deal.”

               There was no point in carrying on this conversation. Three decades of experience has taught me that when Logic raises its head, shut up.

               “Now about your party,” he said, as he watched me getting impatiently ready to leave. “Don’t miss out the cleaning fluids, scrubbing pads, and hand-lotions. And remind your friends that rubber gloves, masks and other disposable stuff adds to the piles of eyesore.”

               Then added: “Now ‘sweeping someone off her feet’ takes a whole new meaning, huh?”

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