“It is not working,” I murmured.

“Wait for some time, it will,” Mahishi murmured back.

We had been in bed for some time. Perhaps for an hour, perhaps more.

Our bed is about a foot away from a thin, ordinary glass pane. On the other side, about twenty feet apart, runs a road. A speed breaker adorns the road at a strategic angle from our flat. Vehicles apply brake when they are bang opposite our window, releasing a high decibel screech that hovers in the air for several seconds. Many vehicles, especially lorries carrying gas cylinders, fail to decelerate sufficiently and jump over the speed breaker, resulting in the generation of a cacophony of sorts. Exposed to the madness for four years, I can distinguish the type of each vehicle with a fine degree of accuracy from just the sound of its screech.

The street noise is ever present in different avatars. As the traffic thins down at night, screeches transform into all pervading wails. Torturing of a silencer-less engine with high acceleration, siren of an ambulance, nocturnal roll-call of dogs, tick-tock of the wall clock, running of the condensing unit of the split air-conditioner in the hyper store below, even the start-stop cycle of the compressor of the refrigerator outside our kitchen, my ears are tuned to appreciate all input and convert it into information useful for the brain but quite useless for me.

Something was missing that night. The comforting sound of the refrigerator. I never knew that I had unknowingly analysed it so well. It started with a ‘tuck’, followed by the harmony produced when water enters a half-filled cistern, and signed off with a small thud with a unique echo.

I had not heard a single cistern filling sound that night, except for the occasion when I had actually used the loo.

A bad omen. Had our refrigerator hit the bucket?

When you are married to the same person continuously for as many years as I have been, you do not start your conversation from the beginning. You approach the topic at any point. It saves time and the effort invested in speaking. For example, there is no need to elaborate that if your newspaper is not delivered and your neighbour is presumably asleep with their newspaper rotting in front of their door, it opens an excellent opportunity for you to indulge in undisclosed co-operation. I just tell Mahishi, “Unka Le Lo (Take their’s)”. She returns within two minutes beaming a smile, with the newspaper in her hand.

She must have been asleep, but perhaps her brain was also recording the absence of the refrigerator sound. She said, “It happens. Do not worry, it will start.”

The disadvantage of studying engineering is that you know more about certain things. ‘Tuck’ must always be followed by the water-gushing-in-the-cistern sound. A solo tuck is worse that your friend not bringing his ravishing wife along when calling on you.

I struggled to catch sleep. My ears struggled to catch the reassuring gurgle of the gas flow. Fifteen minutes crawled. I got up. The stabiliser was on. I opened the refrigerator door. The inside lamp was on. I flicked the switch off and on, tugged at the wires, kicked the compressor. The appliance remained unresponsive like corrupt officials.

No point in waking up Mahishi, I thought and went back to the bed. Two minutes elapsed. Mahishi got up. I heard the sounds of the switch being flicked, the refrigerator door being opened, and Mahishi saying something to herself.

“Inform the mechanic who repaired our water heater some months ago,” I said.

Satisfied that the refrigerator had conked off, we soon fell asleep.

“Should I call up the mechanic?” asked Mahishi the next day.

It was about seven in the morning. The mechanic looked young. Young people stay in bed longer. Considering the outside chance that the mechanic would have gotten up by now, he might be busy with his morning ablutions, I thought.

Mahishi read my thoughts. “I will call him at 7:30,” she announced.

Half an hour later, she announced, “He does not repair refrigerators.”

Finally, another mechanic was arranged. He declared that the refrigerator was dead, but could be brought back to life with a replacement of the compressor and charging of gas, the entire exercise estimated to cost five thousand bucks. The news was conveyed to me over phone at office.

“Five thousand? Wouldn’t it be better to invest seven thousand more and buy a brand new fridge?” I recalled buying a double-door fridge at twelve thousand rupees three years ago.

We celebrated Christmas fridge hunting.

The fridge section of Big Bazaar displayed various kinds of footwear. Mahishi started examining the displays in a manner that is second nature to a woman. She even started enquiring about a specific type of sandal I have been walking in for four years, and identified a sufficiently ugly pair.

“But haven’t we come to look for a fridge?” I protested.

“Fridge Kahan Hain?” She asked an employee.

“We have only one fridge,” pat came the reply.

I appreciate statements such as “I have only one husband”, but a store keeping only a single fridge for sale was beyond my imagination.

The good thing was, rather than spending the allocated forty-five minutes, we ticked off Big Bazaar in five minutes.

The bad thing was, we reached E Zone a full fifteen minutes before its standard opening time.

The peptalk at E Zone extended fifteen minutes beyond the opening time. Employees attending the peptalk glanced at us standing outside the half-down shutters and continued their session, ending it with a chorus of “Come what may, day by day, I will get better and better”.

We walked to the row of neatly arranged refrigerators, looking at the price tags. An employee who had just become better asked what it was that we were looking for. It was pretty sensible. In old days a particular refrigerator brand advertised with the picture of some penguins. We were looking for the elusive penguin, the bettered salesman might have suspected.

We walked out. The price range was much above the twelve thousand mark.

The third stop of the day was Girias. The shop had about fifty refrigerators lined up. We began the inspection of the price tags.

“The prices are similar to those at E Zone,” I told Mahishi.

The salesman interjected, “No, no, these prices are just indicative. Talk to the manager and bargain!”

Bargaining price down from Rs.17,500 to Rs.12,000 is beyond our declared or hidden talents. We looked at each other, defeated but not destroyed and definitely determined to resume the hunt at a fourth place.

The fourth place, Classic, and the fifth, Shree Electronics, proved it beyond doubt that no double door fridge can be purchased in India at a price below Rs.17,500.

Giving up is for cowards. “Examine the seller to the sellers tomorrow,” I told Mahishi.

Metro sells to sellers. I have seen Metro advertisements of 40% discount on refrigerators. Why twelve thousand, at such discount a fridge of Rs.17,500 can be had for Rs.10,500, I surmised.

By the next afternoon we knew that there was no difference in the prices at Metro and the rest of the market.

“One last try. We will visit Sai Galaxy today, and if nothing materialises, we will get the refrigerator repaired,” we agreed.

Forty-five minutes of bargaining at Sai Galaxy, and the price did not move even a bit below Rs.17,500. And then, a non-salesman-type employee whispered something to the owner.

“You can have a Videocon refrigerator at Rs.14,500. If you exchange your existing refrigerator, you will have to pay Rs.13,500,” said the owner, almost apologetically.

“Videocon?!!” After the Sharps, Panasonics, Samsungs and LGs, Videocon appeared to be a very poor choice.

“Show it,” we said reluctantly.

The carton was opened. A shiny maroon refrigerator with floral pattern emerged. It was a double door, frost free refrigerator, no doubt. The price printed on the carton read Rs.15,999. The date of manufacture was November 2013.

I looked at Mahishi.

“We have to use it only for three years. Even though it is Videocon, it should not fail within three years,” Mahishi said.

“It carries a 5-year warranty on compressor, and a one-year warranty on the remaining items,” added the salesman.

“Le Lete Hain (Let us buy it),” we said in unison.

An hour later, a marron fridge stood near the kitchen. The old fridge was gone, after providing us with old age excitement.