Paradise Lost

Electricians are usually tacit. They work like a dumb devil, saying nothing, uttering almost nothing (only if your ears are strong enough to catch the swears under their breath), and doing their job quickly. I forgot his name, the only exception to this observation.

That guy always swore, like a drunken sailor, and he would always apologize. "This fucking whory cables just won't work ... oh, pardon me Chhoto Bhai ... I'm just an illiterate asshole ... manners I do miss ... and what the hell full of pubic hair is this bloody fuse doing here, getting all burnt? You're fucking with the electricity, Mr. Fuse? ... Oh, a thousand apology Chhoto Bhai ... why don't you go and play along ... rather than listening to my bad language and giggle?" He went on and on. Always talking, and swearing, and lingering.

My mother had visible repulsion regarding him, she would rather fix our electric connections herself if she could manage, and obviously it was that guy who would eventually show up if anything went wrong. And some language he fostered.

Anyway, all I want to say, one day I saw him, walking fast past me, with some awefully red hibiscus in his firm grip, looking very absent-minded ... and he almost screeched to a halt when he saw me stairing at him. I gave him an inquisitive glare, and he nervously brought his hands back from his behind. No need to be ashamed, every guy has the damned right to carry flowers.

I, being a kid back then, decided to embarass him a bit more, and asked, "Who are those reddies for?"

That electrician, producing one of the best loving smile I've seen so far, said, "For the lady in the house."

He didn't wait for my second question, and cantered along, flowers in hand, and obviously, with great love hidden in his chest. Hibiscus was not very easy to collect.

And I admit, I never could express my passion with that much intensity. I lost it somewhere on my way.