It’s Saturday. The intercom rings at 5AM. D and I both curse, and a 20 second conversation follows on how this had to be a delivery, and why the security is buzzing us when we have agreed on “9 to 9, no calls”! D manages to reclaim some sleep, I can’t.
At 7 ish AM, I am pissed, and have to use extra willpower to enforce my morning exercise routine. I want to give that security guy a piece of my mind, and hurry to catch him before his shift gets over. Turns out I am a minute late, and the other security guy doesn’t have his number stored. WTF dude! I am even more pissed, and tell him that I need the number when I return from my morning jog.
I am back. I call the guy and ask him why the f*** he had to screw my morning. He apologises, says it won’t happen again. I am still pissed. What about my morning, I ask. He says it was a mistake, what can he do. He assures me it won’t happen again. In the back of my mind, I sense a weariness in his voice, I shut the empathy out. I continue to be pissed. It doesn’t help that he says he can’t hear. The call is cut, I call back. And again. I tell him that he will need to face me later in the day, so there is no point in cutting the call. He calls back after the third call drop. I AM PISSED. It won’t happen again here, I say, because I am calling the manager to tell him to replace you. He pleads, I swear at him and cut the call.
It’s late evening, we go out for dinner. There is beer involved, I tell D that I am still pissed and will confront him when we get back. She has gotten over it, and says maybe there is a context we don’t know. I say it is a mistake if he accidentally dialled and then cut the call. He let it ring the whole way! I get out of the cab, walk up to him and ask him when he plans to wake me up on Sunday. I have a script in my head, to shame and hurt him. He begins with Good evening, as he always does. He apologises again and says it won’t happen again. I start my script but stop when I hear his.
It’s 4.45 AM. He gets a call from his wife, in Nepal. Their son, about 16 years old, has malaria and is in the hospital. She wants him to come back. I wonder aloud – isn’t he better off staying here and earning so he can send back money? He says that is exactly what he tried telling his wife, but she refused to understand. He was still trying to process all this when the delivery guy landed. He instinctively called on the intercom. I pat him on the shoulder and say that mistakes happen, and not to worry, everything will be ok.
I make my way back in. D looks at me and I report what happened. I realise I didn’t get to use my script. I am ashamed. I am hurt. And I am pissed. Now, at myself. I call him and tell him to let us know if he needs money. He thanks me and says he doesn’t need anything now. Damn things are prickling my eyes. I grit my teeth and carry on with our Saturday night movie-at-home routine. For the next few hours, I watch the movie, sighing. Repeatedly. At the injustice of my privilege. At the unfairness of life.
It’s Sunday. I have an after-dinner craving for ice cream. It’ll get delivered at 9.30. I call up the security guy and tell him to waive off our agreement of “no calls between 9 and 9” for once. I smile wanly at the irony of the timing. The ice cream arrives. Guilt free, says the package. Ha!
Today is Monday, a year to the day this guy said goodbye. I realise once again that before I get to his ordinary kindness, I have to get rid of my extraordinary unkindness.