Being brought back down to earth

This confession does not make me feel proud, but yesterday I may have had a bit of a tantrum. Actually, I had a lot of a tantrum. It began with exasperated sighing. It progressed to stalking. And then there was the throwing of personal items onto the ground… Like I said, I’m not proud.

It all started because of the rain, really. It had been disgustingly, drippingly hot for weeks in Parbatipur, then all of a sudden, at about 2 o’clock yesterday afternoon, the heavens opened and it didn’t cease to pour until the next morning.

Unfortunately for me, this reduced my options for getting home. Walking was ruled because I’d chosen yesterday to wear white (a rather lame reason, I know). Taking a rickshaw, my usual choice, was also ruled out because apparently going out in the first rains after a long dry spell is dangerous for one’s health. (Incidentally, I think it was this little pearl of wisdom that started to get my back up… I mean seriously!?)

Anyway. Not to fear, Mahabub told me. He’d give me a lift. I just had to wait ten minutes.

Now, I know in the grown up part of my mind that I really should’ve been grateful for his kind offer. But I was functioning in the teenage part, clearly. I rolled my eyes. I felt a suffocating frustration settling onto me, somewhat like a wet duvet being dumped on my body.

You see, I’ve heard this “just ten minutes” before. It usually comes just before a mind-numbing 45 minutes (at the very least) of me being told to sit, sit, on the pretence of gossiping, while whoever it is I’m waiting for fannies about inanely with some vital piece of work that could quite frankly be done in five minutes tomorrow morning.

However, I tried to be optimistic. I waited fifteen minutes, then got my stuff together and went to find Mahabub. He was sitting at the computer in his office. He looked up at me apprehensively (you see, we’ve been here many times before). Apparently, the Project Coordinator has asked him to stay a little longer to help him with some vital piece of work which apparently could not be done tomorrow.

This triggered the exasperated sighing.

Mahabub, being sadly used to this behaviour on my part, said he’d go and talk to the PC.

I said “Fine” (in that way that 14 year olds have, which is meant to demonstrate that it is most certainly not fine), and stalked back to my office. Mahabub and the PC were having an agitated conversation in Bangla, glancing nervously at me from time to time, in the way that you might glance at a rabid dog that is still at a safe distance but might hurl itself at your jugular at any moment.

In a brief moment of rationality, I decided to accept my fate and do something useful with my time. However, my laptop currently takes about 30 minutes to boot up, and connecting to the internet takes at least another fifteen. Glowering all the while, I switched the computer on and sat down to wait for it. I could feel my blood pressure rising. The wet duvet was getting heavier. That’s when I threw the laptop bag onto the floor.

Unfortunately, Mahabub is wise to my moods. He turned from his conversation with the PC, and gave me a quite withering stare.

“It fell,” I mumbled, or something to that effect, my cheeks reddening. (Again: not proud).

Eventually, he managed to extricate himself from whatever vital task he had been given, and we set off in the rain, which had – rather fittingly I thought – began to pour.

The rage began to lift as soon as Mahabub insisted that I use my umbrella. This doesn’t sound too amusing until you realise I was sitting on the back of a motorbike. He had me holding it above our heads, angled against the rain, rather like a Roman shield braced against a shower of arrows. God knows how he could see the oncoming traffic.

By the time we’d made it through the mud and out of Haldibari, I couldn’t remember why I’d become so worked up. There was a fresh wind blowing – admittedly lashing rain into our eyes – but it was a welcome respite. The paddy fields flashing past looked clean and bright.

As we cruised into town, Mahabub began a serious conversation. I knew it was serious because he always begins such conversations with my name.

“Joshphin,” he said over his shoulder.

“Yes?” I responded gaily, tantrum forgotten.

“What was your problem just now in office? I think you are angry, maybe?”

“No, no…” I muttered, searching for a plausible excuse. “I’m just a bit… tired,” I finished, pathetically.

Mahabub eyed me disparagingly in the wing mirror.

“But you threw your bag onto the floor.”

(Oh the shame! The shame!)

“No, it, erm, fell…” I protested.

Again, the searching eye in the wind mirror.

“Okay, okay!” I gave in, “I threw it. I’m sorry. I don’t know why, I was just… feeling… impatient.” I felt ridiculous. Guilty and ridiculous.

At this, Mahabub snorted. Bangladeshi people, not just him, don’t seem to get impatient.

“You know, Joshphin. Sometimes I think to beat you,” he said, and laughed like a drain at his own hilarity.

I think my indignant laughter might have been taken too seriously, because he quickly added: “But softly, of course!”

And I was laughing all the way home.

Lesson for the day: Take a deep breath and count to ten? Grow up? Ideas on a postcard please!