Why Lawns Are Like Dogs (And Other Stories)

You must be wondering about the title of this blog. Do not fear. By the time you get to the end of it (and I sincerely hope that you will be your usual patient self and read the whole thing), you will hopefully know what I am talking about.

Why exactly, are lawns like dogs, you ask?? Let me start at the beginning. I spent the first few months of this year searching for an apartment in the Indian city of Pune, the self-professed education and information technology hub of India (and it is actually). Making the decision to move to Pune from Babylon-like Bombay was not an easy one, I assure you. Having made that decision, I spent a few hectic days in February, scouting out potential homes in Pune. My search started in the desert-like surroundings of Kharadi, a far-flung corner of Pune that the real estate agent optimistically told me was “within the boundaries of the Pune Municipal Corporation”. His words offered me little comfort. Kharadi turned out to be a sort of rural India setting, dusty and in the middle of nowhere. There is a futuristic Information Technology (IT) Park coming up there, but it will take about three years before the place becomes habitable. Also, the nearest trees seemed to be about two kilometres away, a smudge on the distant horizon. I was reminded of my recent stay in the Middle East. And I wasn’t even sure that they were trees. It could have been a mirage on a hot afternoon. The place felt like a tropical version of Siberia.

Besides, I don’t think the real estate agent was too impressed by me. He showed up for our meeting wearing a designer suit and Armani shades, in a luxury air-conditioned sedan. I showed up in a frayed T-shirt and shorts, on the back of the wife-to-be’s trusty, dusty, beat-up old scooter. No doubt, he was expecting a hotshot NRI (Non-Resident Indian) with loads of petrodollars to spare. Instead, he got me.

The apartment complex I saw in Kharadi consisted of about ten tall apartment buildings each of which was nine stories high. The complex was euphemistically named “___________ Gardens”. I do not want to be sued by the builder, hence the “___________”. On close observation (actually even a cursory one would have been sufficient), I saw that the “Gardens” bit in the name was a complete misnomer. It was hot in the middle of February, and the only vegetation that approximated a tree was a stunted shrub in the huge, dusty parking lot. The proposed “garden” so prominently displayed on the real estate hoardings was about the size of a large postage stamp. The shrub itself looked lonely and traumatized and my heart went out to it. So Kharadi was no longer in contention as the dream home for Yours Truly.

To cut a long story short, we settled on a house in the upscale, lively Kalyani-nagar suburb of Pune, home to globetrotting IT yuppies and Bollywood femme fatales (or so I am given to understand). Here I must acknowledge the decisiveness of the wife-to-be, because without her making the decision, I would never have bought the place. She is well aware of my tendency to dawdle and overanalyze. Suffice to say that we are the proud owners of a bright, airy apartment that is quiet, dust free and yet very conveniently located. I have already discovered all the good bars and restaurants in the area. Also, liquor stores here deliver intoxicants to your doorstep based on just a phone call, just like at home in Bombay! Verily, my cup of joy overfloweth (literally, on weekends).

There is a nice “joggers” park nearby complete with a running track and a laughing club consisting of slightly demented senior citizens. Apart from getting my daily dose of exercise which offsets my less-than-healthy lifestyle, I also learn a lot from my daily visits to the joggers’ park, thanks to the loud middle-aged ladies who also drop by every morning. I sit on a park bench after my workout and eavesdrop on their conversations about the best recipes for “choley” (chickpeas) and the benefits of “katora” (push-up) blouses for older women. Because of my ability to discreetly eavesdrop, I have become a lot wiser in the last few weeks. Needless to say, the wife-to-be frowns on this tendency of mine to eavesdrop on other people’s conversations, but I do need my share of entertainment now, don’t I? I feel a smarter, better man for my eavesdropping. I often feel the urge to join these middle-aged housewives on their bench and contribute to their discussions (I am sure that my well thought-out views on push-up blouses and chickpea recipes are worth hearing), but I have been strongly dissuaded from doing this by the wife-to-be.

And now, finally, we will get to what you have been waiting impatiently to hear – why lawns are like dogs. You must remember that I was born and brought up in the city of Bombay (known now as Mumbai), which has one of the highest real estate prices in the world. Owning an apartment there in a nice neighbourhood is a luxury and beyond the means of even upper middle class people. Owning an apartment with a balcony (veranda) is unheard of. It is something reserved for movie stars and billionaire industrialists who have companies listed on the NASDAQ and New York Stock Exchange. Imagine then my excitement, when I found out that the fourth floor apartment I bought in Pune had a balcony that measured about two fifty square feet, open to the sky and overlooking a vast expanse of flowering trees as well as a working women’s hostel (very important, that last fact).

The inner gardener in me decided that a lawn on this big veranda would be appropriate, little knowing the consequences of this landmark decision. The lawn looks great, no two ways about it. But it has become the apple of the wife-to-be’s eye, much to my chagrin. Just the other day, she returned from a long day at work. I of course am unemployed at the moment, and was expecting her to tenderly ask me how my day went (at the moment, my days are spent washing dishes and making sure that the toilet bowls are spotlessly clean). Instead, the first question I was asked was whether I had watered the lawn that day. When I feebly protested that my hectic cooking and cleaning schedule for the day had not permitted me the time to do so, I got an earful.

Recently, I suggested that we get away to a nearby hill resort town for the weekend, considering that the monsoon is here and the weather is just about perfect. Her reply was instantaneous and final. “We cannot do that”, she said. “Who will water the lawn?” It is obvious that the lawn has replaced me in the wife-to-be’s affections. She is Lord Emsworth to my Angus McAllister (for those of you familiar with that beloved creation of humorist P.G. Wodehouse). I am resigned to my fate. I have come to the conclusion that lawns are like dogs. They require constant care and hog all the attention. Now if you will excuse me, I have to go. The lawn needs watering.