I mentally thank my boss for assigning me to cover the National Kayaking and Canoeing championships here and suddenly feel very pleased being a scribe. Stepping out of my shikara New Honeymoon I find it odd that my shoes make such a racket on the wooden steps into my house boat, rechristened Princess. She was originally called Bharat Mata, they told me, but under pressure from militants to remove the `Bharat' bit, even the `Mata' went.

Stepping into the plush lounge overstuffed with fresh flowers in narrow vases, I see I'm not alone; at the overpolished, overcarved walnutdining table is a family, at high tea.

We turn left and Naseer Bhai, the manager, shows me into my room, at the far end of the boat. It smells of fresh sawdust. Cedar on the floor, over my head, on the walls, in crazy designs, as if the carpenter got too many ideas at the same moment. I splash around in my bathtub and then listen curiously to the sound of water gushing outside. From behind the curtain, I peep out, I see my bathwater draining into the Dal Lake.

But that's just the beginning. I settle down for dinner at the walnut table, where two sloppy men on my left make offending noises while tucking in. I look into my plate but look up just in time to catch the one in front dig into his ear with the butter knife.I screw up my face, he responds with a burp and ``OKji'' to all.

Back in my room, I start sneezing. I look up and see me looking at myself. Two elongated me's distorted by a freshly wiped minor. It's very scary. It's dark outside, very, very quiet too. There's an occasional creak if I turninside my blanket, I hear the water gushing out of my neighbour's bathtub and a mouse scurrying on the roof. Like a coffin, I think, and it suddenly sounds real. A big coffin, with an attached bath and a sliding door.

So I turn off the lights and think of coffins till I hear my neighbour brushing his teeth. Groggily, I plod onto the verandah. Just in front, in stark contrast with the early morning calm, a young shikarawala spoons out piles of wild grass, green and messy, the pile growing bigger on his sturdy boat. ``Fresh manure for my fields'', he says. His name's Gulzar, studies science at the University and works tirelessly till the government dredgers come. At 10 o'clock.

By then, our Man Friday, the `Captain', announces tea. I take a sip and say it's salty. Captain, like a big baby, with a khaki cloth cap fixed on his head, just grins and says ``I don't like cooking.'' We laugh, we become great pals. He's never around when other guests ring the bell. He picks up the extension phone and listens toconversations, enjoying his little joke.When the phone lines go dead, he says, so raha hai (it's sleeping).

The electricity goes off and two or three shouts of Captain! echo through the corridors. ``Ghar gaya'' (it's gone home) is all he says by way of explanation, but he has no home to call his own. A little shack, 100 km away, which he did have is now empty, his wife ran away because he had no money to keep her with him in his watery world on the Dal. This beauty sickens him, for he can't fill his stomach with dewy mornings and splendid sunsets.