When the air conditioner came home

Kolkata: In the India of the 1980’s, we left home to find an air conditioner. In the heat wave of today, home is usually the coolest place to chill. Although, the warmth is often missing.

The acquisition of the first air conditioner was a remarkable milestone for middle-class India. No less in intensity or emotion than buying a car or a bike. Not just a marker of affluence, it also symbolised the evolving abdication of restraint. A perestroika of our much-regarded value system, rooted in tactical suffering. To prepare for that mythical creature known as the future, born to drain our savings.

Therefore, we went to movie halls for moody whiffs of mountain air, delivered through archaic blowers. Yogic acumen was summoned to be on the right side of the firing line, else the tropical leftovers would be in store. Those blessed with magnanimous LTA could board the AC 2 Tier, or 3, compartments for the annual sojourns to Jabalpur or Puri. On the upper berths, the blast felt like a rainshower, while in the lower terrains, rather aptly, the influx would be measured. Either way, the overnight mail trains were sheer bliss, Switzerland on wheels for the wonder years.

There were yet other surreptitious ways to sneak a few moments with the artificial airs. In school, the computer centre was a certain refuge, the wellness of the machine an irrefutable alibi. The computerised railway reservation centres, especially closer to the ticketing clerk. High Street restaurants, although the opportunities to access were remarkably few. Most blessedly, the Premier Padminis of successful relatives, with post facto units that truthfully, provided just the essence and not substance of the desired experience. In the Government tourist lodges, the luxury rooms were few and prohibitive, not just in tariff but the rituals of access.

Till one day, with much fanfare, the air conditioner arrived home, like a newborn from a neonatal ward. It was usually garage assembled, the brand name just a wishful label and not a trust mark. As long as the compressor was Kirloskar, all allied transgressions could be easily forgiven. The choice of plastic grill was an inclusive family exercise, no less intense than the ‘ Meri Wali Pink’ of the living room. In tune with the precious possessions of the day there was a waiting period and we keenly waited for the landline confirmation that finally the compressor from Pune had agreed to break bread with the wiring of Bhawanipore. But there were still stiffer hurdles to overcome, till the games were declared open.

It was now time for Mac the Knife, the seasoned demolisher and assembler of window grills. Rugged folks with stern expressions, most certainly from the superannuated penal cadre. In a brief dismissive glare, he would identify the war zones, where the unit would find a new home, flanked by wooden ramparts. The abrupt amputation of the window was tough for most households to digest, both practically and emotionally. Iron was the embodiment of home security, a more potent entry barrier than the American TSA. But when time is up, we all have to go.

The process of installation could extend up to a week, in the less processed times of the day. After the blue collar gig was complete, the white collar ‘engineer’ would have to appear. Fellows as such oozed gravitas in every snort, with testing contraptions straight out of science fiction movies. The feel of the air mattered way less than the read of the device, and therein customer centricity was laid to rest. It was common practice to linger this over days, as a senior representation arrived to make the final verdict. Noise, most naturally, was slayed at the altar of upliftment, like the Supersonic Concorde.

The day of launch was often the Grihapravesh 2.0. Relatives from far and neighbours from near were summoned sincerely, the rasgullas and laddoos kept rather handy. Much before noon, in peak performance conditions, the machine was set up to act, with Los Alamos precision. Guests who arrived early occupied pole position on the bed, the bedroom invariably the first port of call for Messrs Kirloskar and Co. Late Latifs could hang in edgeways, permitted a whiff of the foreign climes till being banished to the Reality TV living areas. 

As the initial euphoria settled, the home never quite settled. Camp beds were commissioned with haste, the lesser mortals in the family permitted selective nighttime access. Apartheid in socialisation was enforced post haste, with ‘lounge’ access allowed to select visitors, like Changi or Schiphol. For those considered worthy, these would be the best of times. For others, the power distance would be further reinforced. So be it.

Over the weeks and the months, the window air conditioner would act as an inspiration cum avarice for lesser others. Many would be suitably goaded to upgrade, while others would prefer to sweat in shame. In each instance, a pattern would be established. Those who have earned the cool would get the cool, the others could stand and wait, in Noel Coward fashion.

Nowadays, we live in artificially cooled climes, everywhere and anywhere. It is a standard operating process, no longer exceptional living conditions. Surely a good thing in so many ways, but inarguably a departure from the romance of yore. When a magical whiff of sin laced air would represent a universe of unforeseen opportunities. Such is life.