Inju wants his summer holidays to be . . . boring. Terribly, horribly boring. He wants his days to be as dull as ditchwater, as monotonous as khichdi, as drab as cardboard, as uninteresting as —
‘We’re nearly there,’ says Shekar Bhaiya, the driver, interrupting Inju’s thoughts. Inju peeks out of the window, looking for the most unexciting house in all of Mumbai. And there he sees it — a curved sign between two gently swaying coconut trees that reads: Parijat Retirement Colony.
Shekar Bhaiya swerves the car into a block full of squat, grey buildings and stops at the squattest, greyest block that says: D Wing. Inju pulls out his heavy bag and says bye to Shekar Bhaiya, who leaves just as quickly as he arrived.
‘INJU! Up here!’ comes a raspy voice from high up on the tenth floor.
Inju pushes his glasses up his nose and cranes his neck to see the tiny figure of a grey-haired lady waving excitedly at him from between faded red curtains.
It’s going to be perfectly boring. And perfectly relaxing, he thinks as he waves back at her with a big smile on his face.
Now you might be mistaken into thinking Inju is a fifty-year-old-man looking to retire peacefully. But no, he is just an eight-year-old boy who has to spend his summer vacations at his grandmother’s house this year. His parents are holidaying in Europe, and he is secretly relieved that he wasn’t invited to join them.
When he enters, he gets whiffs of a familiar old smell that’s typical of Paati’s house — a comforting mixture of sandalwood talcum powder, pain relief balm and yellowing newspapers. Paati greets him by enveloping him in a hug that makes her overly starched cotton sari crunch. Although he won’t admit it easily, Inju loves being hugged tightly by Paati in her stiff sari ––it’s a comfortable feeling that he has known his whole life.
He sets his bag down and settles into Paati’s weathered sofa, where you can find coins and old bills if you sink your hands deep enough into its cracks and corners. As he gets comfortable with a cup of hot milk that Paati has made for him, he waits for her to launch into a series of very boring incidents. His grandmother tends to repeat the same things each time he visits her.
They usually go like this: ‘Guess what, Inju!
1. The other day, I found a giant snake gourd/ lauki/potato/carrot in the market.
2. I’ve just read a very interesting article on digestion. You must read it too. Best to start now so you can avoid gas later.’
And:
3. ‘Has your mother sent back my dabbas?’
Usually, his answer to the third point is ‘No’, which sends Paati into a spiral of dabba- related complaints. Precious Tupperware and an airtight container from the UK feature at the top of her list. (Sometimes Inju thinks Paati loves her dabbas almost as much as she loves Inju.)
And in this manner, Inju is slowly but surely lulled into the slow pace of life in Parijat Retirement Colony. The thing is, he doesn’t mind this at all. Any amount of boredom is preferable to being bullied at school for his squeaky voice, his thick glasses and his chubbiness.
(Excerpted with permission from Penguin Random House India.)