Author Prajwal Parajuly luxuriates in door delivery at Sri City

Illustration
| Photo Credit: Saai

Not very long ago — at least in the first few of the five years that Krea University has been around — Amazon refused to deliver to Sri City. Of course, as a town grows, increasing its share of residents with disposable income, global giants come around. Colleagues often remarked how lucky I was to have mops and disinfectant wipes and blenders brought to my doorstep. It hadn’t been so straightforward for them. Setting up a house anywhere is hard. Do that in the middle of nowhere, and the challenge compounds. The mobile data in my fifth-floor apartment refused to cooperate. A teeny crumb on the floor, and an army of ants descended from hell. The campus laundromat would lose my laundry, only for it to resurface several days later. At least home deliveries made my move somewhat easier. 

The first week of my new life, I had spent as much time contemplating paper towels on Amazon as I had my syllabus. For every hour dedicated to lesson plans on dialogue tags, there would be two hours of mulling over the benefits of Mr Muscle verses some eye-wateringly expensive hipster brand. I bought spoons and plates and glasses. I ordered a steel trash can, too. I’d need soap-holders and a frying pan. By the end of the week, I had read more reviews on hangers — apparently my choice of wooden ones was aesthetically pleasing but broke at an alarming frequency — than I had my students’ writing. It didn’t help that the expected packages hadn’t yet materialised. Between phoning Amazon and ordering on Amazon, I was drained. 

 It was time for a break. 

And nothing screamed break louder than a jaunt in the neighbourhood park. When I accepted the job at Krea University, I was given two accommodation options: a dingy flat the size of my thumb in perfectly organised Sri City proper or a light-filled place the size of France in the midst of some chaos just outside of Sri City. I selected the bigger flat despite its being farther from campus because it came with a park. Referring to it as a park was optimistic, but what else would you call an empty rectangular plot, gated and barricaded, in an area infested with mid-rises? Inside the gate was a walking track. There was an overgrown patch. There were even benches. Bangalore’s Cubbon Park wouldn’t hold a candle to this neighbourhood gem. 

My glaze-white-tiled flat with the two bathrooms whose shared wall went only three-quarters of the way up looked out to the park. Had I chosen a place on the opposite side of the building, the back of a women’s hostel would have been on my horizon. How the empty plot came to be is a mystery, but if it was the main reason I had eschewed an easier commute, I would make sure I’d use it. So far, I had been intimidated in much the way going to a new gym intimidates people.  But Amazon can do funny things to your brain; I switched off my computer and made my way out.  

The park was a happy place. The factory workers had returned home. Young men played cricket. Young women chatted.  (As a writer who is all about dispelling gender stereotypes, I’ve frantically looked for women playing a sport in the park but have been disappointed. Small-town Andhra, at least the region I live in, doesn’t care much for my wokeness.) I traded pleasantries with visiting parents of Krea professors. I even exchanged awkward nods with the petting lovers I spied on from my balcony. 

It was nice to be out in the open, far from Amazon’s tentacles. This was our version of forest-bathing. Sure, there was no breeze, I might have stepped on a sanitary pad and fornicating stray dogs didn’t exactly provoke the same feelings that birdsong did, but an actual dedicated area for sports and walks was a blessing. I was grateful. The park had done its job. 

How long would it last, though? There was rampant construction around me. Would the empty plot go the way of other empty plots? A colleague echoed my concerns. He was afraid that the park was only a placeholder for a future building. It didn’t make sense for something that size to just sit there unmonetised. But I had other issues to worry about. The Amazon packages had finally appeared. About half a dozen wooden hangers arrived broken. The blender — the only expensive thing I had ordered — was reported delivered but nowhere to be seen.  And the steel trashcan? Amazon replaced it with a broken green bucket. The return process was cumbersome. I’d use the green bucket as the trashcan in my balcony, the same one that overlooked the park. One stormy day, the wind almost blew it away. 

Prajwal Parajuly is the author of The Gurkha’s Daughter and Land Where I Flee. He loves idli, loathes naan, and is indifferent to coffee. He teaches Creative Writing at Krea University and oscillates between New York City and Sri City.