Limits of endurance

Limits of endurance
Ashwin Ahmad

There are many stories of the endurance of the human body. Tales like Robinson Crusoe or Gabriel Garcia Marquez's Story of a Shipwrecked Sailor -- of people marooned on a desert island or being shipwrecked at sea -- bring home the human instinct for survival. It's man against the elements, fighting with nothing but the mind.

Fast forward to today and you will find a difference. Survival is still of the fittest, but in order to survive, today's man needs a few friends--- namely the mobile, pager, computer, fax machine, not to forget my personal favourite -- television.

This fact was brought home to me recently when an army of workmen, armed with brushes, invaded our home with one mission: to paint. Everything had to be sacrificed to the whims of our new found messiahs: tables had to be stripped bare, cupboards had to be emptied of a plethora of letters, files and other personal documents making up a landfill area in one corner of the house.

The ordeal took roughly two weeks but the experience will remain for a lifetime. Day after day, we awoke to the sight of the ``kacha baniyan gang'' as we dubbed them and the smell of fresh paint invading our nostrils. Doors, windows and even rooms suddenly developed invisible `no entry' signs, as we searched in vain for that elusive sari, shoe or shirt. The daily ritual of brushing, eating and getting dressed was a pitiful affair as one and all struggled with clothes in the bathroom or when even that succumbed to the painter's brush, to some untouched corner which promised privacy. The daily yells and curses at this disorder in our lives soon became a matter of routine and after some time welcome relief, as the hum of the fan, the trilling of the phone, the whirring of the fridge stopped, bringing about a near total silence.

It was the silence which was perhaps the most disturbing. We all took turns looking at the four walls. Literally, as someone put it, ``watching paint dry.'' Time stood still in a pathetic parody of a Beckett play as I played watchman over the painters with only my sullenness for company. It was during one of these times that I began to realise how dependent I was on an intact home and its possessions for peace of mind, entertainment and even my sanity. Deprived of this even if only for a few hours of the day and I felt caught. Like a rat in a trap.

The ability to adapt and make the most of one's surroundings is something that has been practised since the beginning of humankind. Written in prison, Nelson Mandela's book Long Walk to Freedom is an example of how man triumphed against all odds to provide inspiration to others. Another example that comes to mind is Helen Keller who despite being deaf and blind, overcame these difficulties to become one of the most well known persons of the twentieth century. On a more mundane level, people everyday make adjustments and reach compromises in their daily lives whether it be at the workplace, on the road, at school, or even playing with others. Yet when it comes to the home, the art of adjustment is consigned to the rubbish heap. One's family, possessions and daily routine is so taken for granted, that any deviation from the norm causes furious arguments, confusion and stress. The television and the computer have only helped to heighten this individualistic trend, ensuring that people are unable to copewhen they are suddenly removed, as the recent cable crisis highlighted only too well. The painters had taught me a valuable lesson. Never again would I take my home for granted again.