Bun-bun, Estate Agent.

The ice-pink bunches of flowers nodded and swayed in the gentle evening breeze, hanging over the trellis above the main gate, as though in eager anticipation of their owner’s arrival. Their faint scent wafted through the small garden beyond. It was no neat garden, no herbaceous borders, no trimmed bushes. It was pleasing to the eye though, a riot of colours that should have clashed but instead blended into a joyous whole.

The path that meandered to the front door passed over a thin stream of water, bridged by a large shale stone. The natural slope of the garden allowed the water to pool in a small tank, bottom and sides lovingly crafted by meticulous layering of the kind of smooth oval stones one finds on river beds. These formed an irregular border to the path too, most were smooth grayish brown. Here and there a pink or green one proclaimed that these had been collected from different places and set here.

The house itself was unusual, not brick or stone like the ones nearby. No, it was a light brown, earth coloured – clay to be exact. For the walls were made of clay, the parts that bordered the windows were stucco-ed to allow the clinging vines a better chance to reach the roof and spill over along its edge. It was unique, rather like its owner – a young Indian architect who had just begun to make her name. This house was built to her design with her first earnings and served to illustrate her ideas.

The house kept cool in the hot Indian summers, it had hollow clay bricks that allowed the air to be insulator. It made the most of whatever rain fell by allowing water to flow off the sloping roof and trickle back through pipes to a well behind the house. Solar panels mounted on the back roof gave light and heat when the electricity failed, in this part of India it often did.

Kitchen compost and vermiculture gave the garden the vibrant growth no artificial fertilizer could rival. Just a light pruning to remove dead leaves and weeds, no formal arrangements, the garden looked a part of the countryside.

Hey you there, come on in, but you’ll need to take off your footwear. Just place them in this neat niche or groove that runs all the way along this wall. The runner along the porch is raw gunny sack, it is washable and will keep any residual dust from being tracked inside.

The floor is cool to your feet is it not? It is made of red cement, just normal cement pigmented with iron oxide. It lends itself to the beautiful white designs Jaya has made along the edges and at the corners. That is called rangoli. It is considered a part of any ritual or festival in India. One would normally use a powder and wipe it off after the event, but this was done with white paint on pre-drawn stencils. Striking effect, almost like a carpet, am I right?

The furniture? See those bamboo and cane racks against the walls? Pull them down – here – this is a long settee, it can be a narrow bed at night. No, one does not sit or sleep on the woven cane directly; this alcove has the rolled thin mattresses that go on top. See, one just pulls on these large brass rings and that set of woodcut paintings slides right out, it is a chest of drawers. Pillows and sheets too.

The tinkling sounds you hear? Why those are the wind chimes at every window, they act as weather warning too, discordant notes mean an impending storm. Jaya believes in making use of any help nature can provide. I would take you through the rest of the house and show you the clay oven or the solar cooker she has designed, but I hear her at the door now. Got to go, sorry.

“Norman Wainwright? I am sure you had no trouble finding my place, it is known as Crazy House around here.”

A swirl of long cotton skirt above brown ankles, a crisp white muslin top and a smile that pulsated in the cool dimness of the room; that is what Norm noticed about the woman he had come to interview. He had been asked to walk right in and make himself at home. The unique personality of the whole and innovative ideas that abounded had prodded the reporter’s ever fertile imagination.

He put down the stuffed toy that was the only discordant note in the entire room, a shapeless mass of worn out and faded plush, one beady eye askew. Seated right at the entrance, it had seemed to impale him with its squinting gaze, mesmerizing him into an imaginary house tour.

A sound halfway between a choke and a gurgle might have alarmed him, but he saw the merriment in Jaya’s eyes. “That is Bun-bun, my bed-mate, playmate and counselor since infancy. Or have you already made his acquaintance?”

Norm liked the confidence that acknowledged a childish toy, albeit one fallen on bad times. He found himself extending his hand in greeting.

“Oh, yes, we had exchanged glances and were just beginning to learn about each other when you walked in.”

The interview was a meeting of like minds and from the published article, it was obvious to any reader that the reporter was besotted by the construction and layout. About six months later a wedding made it even clearer that the love fest extended further.

I believe a rejuvenated Bun-bun, fortified by eye surgery and total stuffing replacement, presided over the affair. But nobody could be quite as crazy as that, could they?



Word count:951 words