<p class="bodytext">The afternoon sun beat down harshly on my top-floor dwelling. The famed Indian summer had fully set in. I was lounging on my bed, comforted by the air conditioner pumping cool air with full force to beat the heatwave. "Ding-dong," the doorbell cooed emphatically. "What in heaven does anyone want at this ungodly hour?" I murmured angrily as I dragged my feet to open the door. "Can I have a matchbox?" a stranger asked. He, as it turned out, was a plumber, making a professional visit to the vacant house next door under renovation. He needed to light up a small fire to melt a few plastic pipes to weld them together. I groggily handed him one.</p>.<p class="bodytext">Having been jolted out of his siesta, my son retorted angrily, "Why can't you say no?" Yes, I could have said no. It set me thinking. But we are not wired that way. This happens to us all the time. Delivery boys and unlettered workers land up at our door, asking for directions. Shooing them away quickly can be a convenient option. Instead, we patiently go through the address and try to help.</p>.<p class="bodytext">A nice "thank you" is what most delivery boys who routinely bring groceries to our place have come to half-expect of me. "Go, have some tea," my husband would regularly hand out small cash to the municipal sweepers who kept our bylanes clean. All he would get in return would be a "salaam" accompanied by a warm smile. "You play the flute very well," I commented, mesmerised by a flute seller's soulful rendition. "What's the use? I don't earn much," he remarked ruefully. I parted with a Rs 50 note in exchange for a wide grin.</p>.<p class="bodytext">"Please save me. They will kill me. They are waiting for me downstairs. Call the police." A haggard middle-aged fellow once showed up at our door at five on a chill winter morning. "Don't open the door," my husband shouted after me as soon as he sensed something was amiss. I dialled the police. "Can I have some water?" he pleaded through the closed wire-guage door. "He might be armed. He might harm us," my husband dissuaded me. He was probably involved in a drunken brawl. The cops came and whisked him away. All he wanted was a glass of water. The thought rankled me for a while.</p>.<p class="bodytext">"Why does everyone end up at our doorstep? We live on the top floor," my son often wonders, exasperated. Perhaps we give out positive, inviting vibes, which is my standard reply. Attitudes are contagious. Make yours worth catching; it would make the world a better place, I tell him.</p>.<p class="bodytext">Meanwhile, the plumber returned the matchbox in the evening, accompanied by a warm smile. I had earned that smile by being human with another human.</p>
<p class="bodytext">The afternoon sun beat down harshly on my top-floor dwelling. The famed Indian summer had fully set in. I was lounging on my bed, comforted by the air conditioner pumping cool air with full force to beat the heatwave. "Ding-dong," the doorbell cooed emphatically. "What in heaven does anyone want at this ungodly hour?" I murmured angrily as I dragged my feet to open the door. "Can I have a matchbox?" a stranger asked. He, as it turned out, was a plumber, making a professional visit to the vacant house next door under renovation. He needed to light up a small fire to melt a few plastic pipes to weld them together. I groggily handed him one.</p>.<p class="bodytext">Having been jolted out of his siesta, my son retorted angrily, "Why can't you say no?" Yes, I could have said no. It set me thinking. But we are not wired that way. This happens to us all the time. Delivery boys and unlettered workers land up at our door, asking for directions. Shooing them away quickly can be a convenient option. Instead, we patiently go through the address and try to help.</p>.<p class="bodytext">A nice "thank you" is what most delivery boys who routinely bring groceries to our place have come to half-expect of me. "Go, have some tea," my husband would regularly hand out small cash to the municipal sweepers who kept our bylanes clean. All he would get in return would be a "salaam" accompanied by a warm smile. "You play the flute very well," I commented, mesmerised by a flute seller's soulful rendition. "What's the use? I don't earn much," he remarked ruefully. I parted with a Rs 50 note in exchange for a wide grin.</p>.<p class="bodytext">"Please save me. They will kill me. They are waiting for me downstairs. Call the police." A haggard middle-aged fellow once showed up at our door at five on a chill winter morning. "Don't open the door," my husband shouted after me as soon as he sensed something was amiss. I dialled the police. "Can I have some water?" he pleaded through the closed wire-guage door. "He might be armed. He might harm us," my husband dissuaded me. He was probably involved in a drunken brawl. The cops came and whisked him away. All he wanted was a glass of water. The thought rankled me for a while.</p>.<p class="bodytext">"Why does everyone end up at our doorstep? We live on the top floor," my son often wonders, exasperated. Perhaps we give out positive, inviting vibes, which is my standard reply. Attitudes are contagious. Make yours worth catching; it would make the world a better place, I tell him.</p>.<p class="bodytext">Meanwhile, the plumber returned the matchbox in the evening, accompanied by a warm smile. I had earned that smile by being human with another human.</p>