by Krithika Akkaraju
‘I wont be working here from tomorrow’ said Manjila, collecting her salary of 2000 rupees from Mrs. Sen. Tucking the money into her bra with sweaty fingers, she finally let out the words she had been holding back for the past four years: ‘I don’t like the way you talk to me. Find someone else to work for you.. Khoda Hafez.’ She unhooked her chador from the peg and wrapping it neatly around her head, exited the main door of B402, Sunrise Apartments. Her heart was beating wildly in her chest; as a maid, she had finally done the unthinkable.
At the main gate, a hand blocked her path. Startled, Manjila looked up. ‘Sign,’ said the guard, pointing towards the employee register by way of explanation.
‘Ah yes, of course’, she said, letting out a breath. She looked up at the clock; it was 10:30am. She signed her name and exited the giant black gates of the apartment complex, relief flooding her.
It wasn’t until she reached the end of the lane that she dared to look back. No one was following her; the guard was now busy on the telephone, cars were entering and leaving the basement mechanically; the lame dog that lived by the drain was still sleeping peacefully and pedestrians were passing her by without a halt in their step. The scenery seemed to have readjusted itself to her departure. She smiled.
For the first time, she noticed how blue the winter sky in Bangalore was and how pretty the neighbourhood was with its blooms of orange, yellow and purple. The twitter of birds and the moo of cows surrounded her; the occasional scooter zipped by. A few children playing by the roadside waved to her; she waved back. The vendor of pakoras was frying up his first batch and the aroma of crisply fried onions wafted towards her, mingling with the smell of freshly cooked sambar emanating from the neighbouring homes. She noted the odd juxtaposition with amusement.
‘A gentle breeze could carry me away today,’ she thought and giggled – picturing her mustard chador trailing behind as she floated on air, leaving the world far, far behind.
Her stride grew more purposeful as she reached the 4th block market. She nodded politely at the familiar faces. At Sri Krishna Fruits and Vegetables, she ran her hands along the neat piles of brinjals, tomatoes and bell peppers displayed outside. Lifting a ripe chikoo, she drank in its scent and squashed it slightly with her fingers when no one was looking, then placed it back on its rack.
She crossed the street and stepped into Sea Wonders Fish and Poultry store. The supply had just come in and the fish looked plump, their eyes still hadn’t acquired that glassy look. She noted the way the chickens had started fluttering in their cage, sensing her desire to purchase. When she saw Hameed ambling over to make a sale, she hastily straightened up and walked away.
She decided to take the long route to reach Pooja Fancy Stores so that she could take in her favorite sights for the last time; the bent Gulmohar at 6th cross, the blue roofed house where she had first worked as a maid, the cluster of huts where she had lived briefly, the fairy lights twinkling even in daytime at Shringar Apparels; the kirana store where she bought provisions from, the blow up of Aishwarya Rai at Tenzing Beauty Parlor where she occasionally had her eyebrows threaded and the lone broken streetlight with posters advertising PGs and local cooks.
Soon, she found herself at Liberty showroom signal where she had to take a left. She spotted Ruby running towards her, holding her hands out on either side to stop the traffic. Horns blared while an auto-rickshaw driver waved his fists at her, shouting obscenities in Kannada. Unaffected by his rancor, Ruby spat out a mouthful of betel juice in his path and cheerfully hopped across to Manjila.
‘Ae! Kee karacho? What are you doing walking around like a free bird in the middle of the day?’
‘I am free, don’t you know? I finally told that witch what I thought of her; after collecting my salary of course. Tomorrow I’ll be on my way to Dhaka, Ruby, I’m going home – after four long years.’
‘Is it really true?’
‘Haen, train tickets booked, clothes packed…only the agent needs to be paid at the border for the final crossing by road. Now by God’s grace, we will be able to build our own home in Dhaka and send Kareema to school’, Manjila sighed happily.
‘Be safe, theek, Manjila? Insha Allah, I will follow you soon.’
‘Of course Ruby, that day is not far. And don’t worry, I’ve planned everything well. See?’ she pulled up her sleeves slightly to show Ruby the gold bangles she’d purchased. She then guided Ruby’s hand and patted her bosom. ‘All my money’s safe. Four hard years of work. Who’s going to steal from here?’ They burst out laughing.
‘Chalo, Manjila, unfortunately some of us still have a job to go to before we can build our castles. Khoda Hafez!’
‘Khoda Hafez Ruby’
The friends hugged each other tight and Manjila continued on her way to Pooja Fancy Stores.
As she meandered along the footpath, lost in thought and trying to avoid the potholes and pedestrians, she noticed a traffic policeman flagging down a vehicle with an out-of-station registration number. As she watched him demand papers of the driver, Manjila grew cold feet. Surely, they wouldn’t discover that she was an illegal immigrant on her very last day in Bangalore? And that she had absolutely nothing to show by way of papers or identity? She tightly crossed her arms around her body and hurried away from the scene before the policeman could sense her fear and turn his attention on her.
She was still disturbed by the incident when she finally entered the tinselled doorway of Pooja Fancy Stores. She felt that she had had a premonition of sorts, but couldn’t quite figure out how to interpret it.
As she entered the brightly lit store, the sight of bits and baubles, clips, bangles and Chinese toys buoyed her spirits once more. She was still wide-eyed when the marwari shopkeeper accosted her from behind. ‘Can I help you?’
‘Show me some bangles’, Manjila said with authority, the heat of the notes inside her bra filling her with confidence. The shopkeeper bent down, set a large plastic box in front of Manjila and went away.
Left alone, Manjila gently pried open the bangle box and sorted through the colorful rows. The purple dozen she set aside for her daughter Kareema, who at 12, was on the threshold of adulthood. She picked six green metallic ones for her mother – whose wrinkled hands she had longed to touch every single night of her stay in this alien city. On impulse, she singled out two rani pink lac bangles for herself, a reward for making it through the long, hard years. She set them neatly on the counter, marveling at the riot of twinkling colors.
‘Anything else?’ the shopkeeper said, interrupting her train of thought.
Manjila shook her head. ‘That will be all’. She could already picture the purple dozen on Kareema’s wrists and the way she would pirouette to admire them. The vision filled her with joy.
The shopkeeper wrapped the bangles neatly in paper and put them in a cloth bag. Manjila retrieved a 500-rupee note from her bra and handed it over. The shopkeeper promptly gave it back. ‘This is no good. Give me 100s.’
‘What do you mean “useless”?’ said Manjila, panic sweeping over her once again.
The shopkeeper’s demeanor softened. ‘Oh sorry dear, haven’t you heard the news? Your 500 and 1000 rupee notes are of no use from today; the government announced it yesterday. See?’ she said, thrusting a newspaper under Manjila’s nose.
‘But don’t worry; just go to any bank, show them a proof of your identity and exchange your notes. Simple. You can come by tomorrow and pick these up, no problem.’ She put the bangles away and turned to another customer.
Manjila stumbled out of Pooja Fancy Stores and sat down heavily on the footpath. She thought brokenly of the purple bangles she had left behind in Pooja Fancy Stores. She thought of the train she wouldn’t be boarding tomorrow and the border to her country that was now impassable to her. And finally, she thought of the notes inside her kurta that were now nothing more than extra padding for the Bangalore winter.
—————————-
The next morning, a hand blocked Manjila’s entry into the giant black gates of Sunrise Apartments. She looked up warily.
‘Flat number?’ the security guard demanded.
‘B402’
The guard turned around and made a discreet call on the intercom. He set the receiver down.
‘Go ahead. Mrs. Sen’s expecting you.’
Picture credit: https://www.flickr.com/photos/rchughtai/
A very good read and so relevant to the present times!