The termite factor
The moment I sank half an inch into the floor I knew something was wrong, deeply wrong
The writer is editorial consultant at The Express Tribune, news junkie, bibliophile, cat lover and occasional cyclist
The moment I sank half an inch into the floor I knew something was wrong, deeply wrong. A step to the right and the same happened. A step forward the same and then I saw the speaker stand to the right of the hifi unit leaning at an alarming angle. All was clearly not well under-foot in the lounge. The expensive faux-wood grain laminate flooring laid three years ago had got a problem. Diagnosis was swift and certain — termites had undermined, in fact eaten, large parts of the flooring where it abutted the wall and this despite the solution that had been liberally soaked into the flooring before the laminate was laid. “Kills everything forever” said the contractor. Oh no it doesn’t!
There was no fix. The floor was done for and needed immediate replacement. And why bother you with this Dear Reader? Why because my calamity brought out the best of Pakistan. Long-time readers of this column will know that my house in Bahawalpur is a constant work in progress, added to piecemeal over the years and extended and refurbished on a rolling programme a bit like the painting of the Forth Bridge — it never ends. Like most homeowners there gets to be a bunch of people who over time and usually after some disastrous trial and error, look after your every need from putting in new fuses to fixing the generator to laying a new gutter or raising the wall to prevent terrorists and burglars disturbing the peace.
Enter stage left screwdriver held aloft — the Bijli Wallah (BW). Well that is how he started out eight years ago but the bijli, fettling thereof, is just one of his vast repertoire of skills. Were I to ask him to build a small nuclear reactor in the storehouse he would not blink an eye. BW is the all-purpose go-to nowadays for just about everything and he cast his eye over my termite-riddled floor. “Tiles” he said. “Done by Sunday” he said. “Estimate in half an hour and samples coming from the shop.” “Coming already?” says I. “Phoned.” He said.
He’s got a gang has the BW. Some seriously heavy chaps that are there in a trice. Within the hour the lounge was emptied of furniture, dust sheets covered the bookcases and the lads were hard at it ripping up the floor to expose the full extent of the damage. Never underestimate termites. They had done an epic job which extended to some of the books on the bottom shelves. Nothing too valuable fortunately but they had munched their way through the Scrabble dictionary.
By the evening of the first day the floor was clear and reeked of whatever it was that was supposed to be death to termites, tiles were selected and yes… done by Sunday. “Really?” “Yes, Mr Chris.”
They worked like demons. They were fed and watered from our kitchen, currently run by a small and virtually globular Hindu woman who dished up healthy doses of mutton korma and hillocks of rice twice a day. She is vegetarian herself but cooks meat for the household. None of the (Muslim) work-gang had the slightest hesitation in accepting food and drink from a non-Muslim hand and she was quietly thanked as she served the lads performing minor miracles. Know their manners, these men.
By Saturday afternoon it was clear that the Sunday deadline was well within their grasp. They worked through until 2am on Sunday morning, slept on charpoys in the garden and were at it by 9.30 after a hearty breakfast of parathas and chai of a sweetness such that I was mildly amazed it did not congeal in the cup all prepared by Mrs R who came in on her day off. Unasked. The skirting tiles were on by 11 and the grouting well under way. They were whisking around with dusters by two, cleaning the picture frames and hoovering dust from the channels of the sliding windows. At three BW came and presented the bill which was only a couple of thousand over the estimate and I paid him, thanked the lads and there it was — a new lounge floor. Pakistan… you couldn’t make it up, could you? Tootle-pip!
Published in The Express Tribune, May 26th, 2016.
There was no fix. The floor was done for and needed immediate replacement. And why bother you with this Dear Reader? Why because my calamity brought out the best of Pakistan. Long-time readers of this column will know that my house in Bahawalpur is a constant work in progress, added to piecemeal over the years and extended and refurbished on a rolling programme a bit like the painting of the Forth Bridge — it never ends. Like most homeowners there gets to be a bunch of people who over time and usually after some disastrous trial and error, look after your every need from putting in new fuses to fixing the generator to laying a new gutter or raising the wall to prevent terrorists and burglars disturbing the peace.
Enter stage left screwdriver held aloft — the Bijli Wallah (BW). Well that is how he started out eight years ago but the bijli, fettling thereof, is just one of his vast repertoire of skills. Were I to ask him to build a small nuclear reactor in the storehouse he would not blink an eye. BW is the all-purpose go-to nowadays for just about everything and he cast his eye over my termite-riddled floor. “Tiles” he said. “Done by Sunday” he said. “Estimate in half an hour and samples coming from the shop.” “Coming already?” says I. “Phoned.” He said.
He’s got a gang has the BW. Some seriously heavy chaps that are there in a trice. Within the hour the lounge was emptied of furniture, dust sheets covered the bookcases and the lads were hard at it ripping up the floor to expose the full extent of the damage. Never underestimate termites. They had done an epic job which extended to some of the books on the bottom shelves. Nothing too valuable fortunately but they had munched their way through the Scrabble dictionary.
By the evening of the first day the floor was clear and reeked of whatever it was that was supposed to be death to termites, tiles were selected and yes… done by Sunday. “Really?” “Yes, Mr Chris.”
They worked like demons. They were fed and watered from our kitchen, currently run by a small and virtually globular Hindu woman who dished up healthy doses of mutton korma and hillocks of rice twice a day. She is vegetarian herself but cooks meat for the household. None of the (Muslim) work-gang had the slightest hesitation in accepting food and drink from a non-Muslim hand and she was quietly thanked as she served the lads performing minor miracles. Know their manners, these men.
By Saturday afternoon it was clear that the Sunday deadline was well within their grasp. They worked through until 2am on Sunday morning, slept on charpoys in the garden and were at it by 9.30 after a hearty breakfast of parathas and chai of a sweetness such that I was mildly amazed it did not congeal in the cup all prepared by Mrs R who came in on her day off. Unasked. The skirting tiles were on by 11 and the grouting well under way. They were whisking around with dusters by two, cleaning the picture frames and hoovering dust from the channels of the sliding windows. At three BW came and presented the bill which was only a couple of thousand over the estimate and I paid him, thanked the lads and there it was — a new lounge floor. Pakistan… you couldn’t make it up, could you? Tootle-pip!
Published in The Express Tribune, May 26th, 2016.