SUNDAY IS FUN DAY (Special)
He was a tall, thin 18-year-old. He wore shabby clothes and even shabbier sandals when he arrived to paint my desk: a small desk that needed sprucing up. I felt pleased to be able to help him out by giving him honest work.
He was recommended by a colleague. “He is such a polite boy,” was what was said.
And, indeed he was. One of the most polite persons I have ever met. I explained the job—sanding , priming, using wood putty to smooth out the gaps, then applying two coats of very costly—and beautiful “petal” pink glossy paint and the trim, “cherry.”
First he went off to the shop for the supplies. He returned and handed me the change. I didn’t check the receipt or the bag of supplies—my first mistake.
It was 9:45 when he began. By noon the putty was drying. At 3 pm he returned and applied the first coat. He said he would come back and “finish the job.” But when he did return, the first coat was still tacky. It was then I noticed the lumps and gorges. The putty had not been smoothed out. “No problem, Madam,” he assured. “I will fix it in the morning.
Then I noticed that the half litre “cherry” gloss was not in the supply bag. He said he must have left it at the shop. He went off to the shop to retrieve it. In minutes he returned. The shop was closed, he said. He was now riding a brand new bicycle with a well-dressed, approximately 14-year-old at the back.
“My helper,” he explained. This is a one-member job, I announced.
“No problem, Madam. “You pay for one worker; you get two.”
At any rate, my office was in a shambles, paint all over the floor, (in spite of the newspapers) and a bucket full of hardening putty—which he said was also not a problem because it was “only Rs 10 chalk powder…”
What? Chalk powder! Let me see the receipt! I was only an octave below my thunderous scream level which sends the neighbours to their windows. I was trying to control myself. I always try.
It seems the polite painter had suddenly misplaced the receipt. He said it happened between the closed shop and the brand-new bicycle ad the well-dressed friend.
Okay, I said, silently reciting my mantra ad letting the well-dressed kid inside. I accepted that with two workers my office would get cleaned up faster ad I could finally get back to work. Well, this was my second mistake.
Next morning at 8 am the painter, the brand-new bicycle and the well-dressed friend did not return to smooth out the lumps and gorges. Meanwhile, the “cherry” gloss has never arrived, the sticky surfaces of the desk are still sticky and right after the duo left, I noticed that some of my cosmetics in the dressing room next to my office had gone missing.
I called my colleague who recommended the polite painter. He admitted that he did not know where the fellow lived, but had hired him off the street! As for missing cosmetics, he couldn’t imagine why boys would steal make-up.
It’s four days later and I still don’t have a desk to work from, or any clues of what to do. None of the local paint shop owners claim to have sold anyone a Rs 110 half litre of “cherry” gloss. In fact, they didn’t sell anyone any “petal” gloss either.
I am stymied. My plan is to wait. Maybe Mr Polite will show up again. Maybe he will explain why he did what he did (or did not do). Maybe waiting is my third mistake.
Meantime, I really, really wonder what a tall, thin 18-year-old young man is going to do with my cosmetics. Or, what his friend is going to do with them. Perhaps at this very moment the two of them are riding the Karnataka Express dressed in saris, jasmine bouncing in their hair, my apricot blush on their fuzz-less cheeks. Oh yes, I can see them now, clapping at the passengers to pay up for the songs being sung to them.
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