Keya Sarkar: Getting the timing right

PEOPLE LIKE THEM

After years of staying in the west of India, I had forgotten how early the sun rises in the east. But more pertinent than that, how soon it sets. Even in the winter months I remember getting out of work past 7 pm and still managing to catch a glimpse of the riot of colours that the sky used to be as I drove though the traffic on Marine Drive.

So it was quite an unpleasant surprise when in Santiniketan, just after the monsoons, from September, the evenings got shorter. With the approach of December the afternoon almost ceases to exist, with the sun beginning to lose its force as early as 2 in the afternoon.

By 4 comes twilight and by 5 it's ready to call it a day. The sharp drop in night temperature together with the fact that the cycle rickshaws have no lights, ensures that I go out in the evenings only on very special occasions.

What is interesting, however, and worth recounting is that this "shortness of the day" has a great impact on the psyche of the locals. I used to be surprised when every half-hour my house help would stop her work, fling her broom, look at the wall clock and mutter "eto choto diner bela na", meaning "the days are so short". And she would moan how it was already 11 am and she hadn't finished any of her work.

I tried to explain to her how the sun setting earlier could not affect how much time she had in the morning to work, but failed to make any impression. The only reason why a lot of the work was remaining unfinished was because the gods were against us and was collapsing the days.

I gave up and thought to myself how I had no right to demolish her naïve beliefs. But it surfaced again. And this time in my garden. Besides the gardener who comes in to tend to the fruits and flowers daily, I also sometimes engage a consultant. Thanks to my years in the city, I haven't a clue which tree needs to be fed when, what is a good time to prune, whether the watering is enough and so on.

Although my consultant gardener Manas is not fond of me because I do not lust after manicured lawns (which make him the most money) or imported varieties of season flowers, he answers my questions as patiently as possible.

Manas normally comes in the morning on his bike. His father, also in the same profession, is a full-time employee of Viswa Bharati. So in status Manas is definitely a cut above the ordinary gardeners who cycle down from their villages to work the mornings in people's gardens. Manas often leaves instructions for my gardener to follow, who needless to say is not fond of this occasional visitor.

That particular morning, as Manas and I walked around the garden with me taking notes on which tasks to prioritise, Manas asked if my gardener could now work for three hours daily instead of his usual two.

My eyes scanned the garden to see what dereliction of duty Manas was pointing out. Plants are so stupid, they are always giving away how often they have been fed or watered! "Why do you ask?" I said putting on a brave front.

"The days are so short these days," he replied. "There are only 45 minutes in every hour in the winter. Only after December 22 the days will start to become longer," he explained with the authority of my geography teacher in school. "If he works for two hours in summer, he needs to put in three in winter," Manas added.

I told him that I would indeed ask my gardener to make up for this change of season! Manas left and I came back to the house. I remember looking at the clock and wondering about the 45 minutes. For a second he had me question all that I had learnt about the winter solstice!