Manjula awoke from a fitful sleep while it was still dark and fumbled around for her mobile phone. Her heart sank as she saw it was already time for her to wake up. She tried to think back to the last time she had had significant rest, but could not recall.
Pushing herself off her worn mattress, she stepped over her husband’s snoring figure and walked out into the street, idly feeling for bedbug bites on her arms.
Not bad, just three today.
Stretching and yawning in the comfortable isolation of the street, she traipsed wearily over to the water tanker to begin her daily chore of filling buckets for the family’s use. As the buckets filled up, her gaze travelled covetously over the cemented walls and meshed windows of the apartment buildings in her neighbourhood. Her dreams, stunted by the grind and decaying influence of a life lived hand-to-mouth, only allowed for fantasies of soft mattresses and a functioning refrigerator.
The buckets having been filled, Manjula carried them back to the house. She stole a flower from a neighbour’s yard and placed it in front of the image of Shiva that stood on her shelf. After muttering a prayer, more out of habit than reverence, she stooped to tug the portable stove out from under the children’s cot.
Cooking a basic meal of chapathi and rasam, she split it into three boxes. Two of them went into her children’s schoolbags, and the third she placed in the bag hanging from her husband’s bicycle. Seeing the sky brighten with the first rays of dawn, she walked into her house to wake the children. Stroking a loving hand over their faces, she woke first her daughter, then her son.
Her son began to cry almost immediately, and his wracking coughs told her that he had not yet recovered from the flu. He had always been a sickly child, and his inability to stay healthy for long stretches wreaked havoc both on his academic performance and their finances.
She clasped him to her breast, shushing him desperately, but it was already too late.
“Will you shut that kid up so I can sleep?” came the dreaded reprimand.
The child and mother both quietened down. Manjula checked her son’s nose, noticing the steady stream of phlegm pooling on his upper lip, and realized he would not be going to school today. She hated the days he had to stay home sick, because it meant she had to leave him alone and unattended. She would know no respite from her anxiety and fears until, long after sundown, she made her way back and saw that he was okay for herself.
Tucking him back into bed, she added her blanket to his and made sure he was warm and comfortable. She then brought in the laundry and set out two bottles of coconut oil, one for her daughter and one for her husband. She also set out their clothes for the day. Thus, having prepared everything, she then woke her husband up and directed a stream of information at him while he was still dusting the cobwebs of slumber from his mind.
“Leave some money on the bed,” he grunted, as he counted his quota of bites for the day.
Manjula extracted a 100 rupee note from her purse, leaving it on the bed as instructed. She had long ago given up trying to reason with her husband and had resigned herself to budgeting for the alcohol every week.
Bidding farewell to her daughter with a kiss, she set off down the unpaved road towards the bus stop.
The bus was scheduled to arrive at seven every morning, but was often late. On this occasion, she was forced to wait for over twenty minutes.
Great. Another day filled with passive aggressive questions.
The bus finally arrived, a large metal clunker painted a garish blue, with the seats, aisle and the doorway overflowing with passengers. Manjula squeezed herself between the men hanging from the door of the bus and tried to make her way in. Most days, the passengers would try to make room, but on some occasions, they stood, unmoving, in the hopes of some physical contact. She wondered how many carried the memories of this brief, perverse thrill to help them through their shitty days.
Standing wedged in between two men, she held her breath, ignoring the stench of sweat and long-standing filth that emanated from the crowd. Sweat began to trickle down her face, running past her eyebrows and stinging her eyes with relentless fire. She did not have enough room to raise her hands to wipe her face.
Well, at least I’m wide awake now.
Forty minutes later, a drenched Manjula disembarked from the bus, paying the conductor a few rupees under the ticket price. This was a bribe. No ticket issued meant the conductor did not have to declare the amount and could pocket the entire thing.
Manjula’s mind wandered back to her son. He would be alone at home by now, with no one to look after him. Once again, she sent up a half-hearted prayer to any deity that could find it in them to look after her son. And then, anxiety unabated, she made her way into the compound.
The security guard, gloating and proud in his uniform, did the routine process of entry logging, asking her the details of the houses she was visiting. He already knew the answers since she came here every day, but he used the questions as an opportunity to assert his authority. His tone was rough and brash, a daily challenge, seeking confrontation. And everyday, her silence bolstered his pride.
She took it as well as she could, resigning herself to this minor humiliation as a matter of routine.
Once the entry was logged, she made her way past the row of houses, approaching the last one on the left. She calculated her chances of getting a positive response if she asked for a half day. She couldn’t afford to lose any more of her wages. Her odds were not great. The residents were regularly miffed at her tardiness and would not be open to any requests. She cursed at her luck and at the bus driver.
Ringing the bell, she waited in the shade, visualizing the day before her. How soon before she was done with all the houses? Would she be able to get back to her son early? What if he took a turn for the worse? What if she skipped the laundry at two of the houses? That would save her an hour at least. But that meant travelling back during rush hour, which negated the time saved.
A couple of minutes had passed and the door did not open. Manjula rang the bell again.
Suddenly a new vista bloomed before her eyes. What if they were not in? Could her fortune be on the turn? Suddenly, a day with a lightened workload did not seem so grim. She could get to the next houses early, explain the situation with her son to them. They would not believe her, but that did not matter. They could not say so to her face. Some of them might threaten to cut her pay, but if even half allowed her some reprieve, why, she could be out of the compound by noon!
She would have the entire afternoon to care for her son. The image of herself lying under the double layer of blankets, cuddling with her son swam before her eyes, enticing her. And god knows she needed the rest. She could even buy him some candy from the bakery. Her husband would not be there to admonish her for the expenditure.
And, now that she thought of it, she would get a whole day at home with no threat of his severe remonstrations. She would be joyously, if fleetingly, unfettered.
This extended daydream crystallized in her head until its vividness took her breath away. Her resolve to make it a reality hardened, and she turned from the door, determined to make the most of this turn of events. She would make today a day to cherish. A day that would lighten the gloom of the darker days ahead. A day she would hold dearer than reason demanded.
As she stepped out onto the porch, she heard the lock click open behind her.
The door opened and a voice rang out.
“Late again, Manjula?”
Manjula turned and walked into the house, apologizing.
Pushing herself off her worn mattress, she stepped over her husband’s snoring figure and walked out into the street, idly feeling for bedbug bites on her arms.
Not bad, just three today.
Stretching and yawning in the comfortable isolation of the street, she traipsed wearily over to the water tanker to begin her daily chore of filling buckets for the family’s use. As the buckets filled up, her gaze travelled covetously over the cemented walls and meshed windows of the apartment buildings in her neighbourhood. Her dreams, stunted by the grind and decaying influence of a life lived hand-to-mouth, only allowed for fantasies of soft mattresses and a functioning refrigerator.
The buckets having been filled, Manjula carried them back to the house. She stole a flower from a neighbour’s yard and placed it in front of the image of Shiva that stood on her shelf. After muttering a prayer, more out of habit than reverence, she stooped to tug the portable stove out from under the children’s cot.
Cooking a basic meal of chapathi and rasam, she split it into three boxes. Two of them went into her children’s schoolbags, and the third she placed in the bag hanging from her husband’s bicycle. Seeing the sky brighten with the first rays of dawn, she walked into her house to wake the children. Stroking a loving hand over their faces, she woke first her daughter, then her son.
Her son began to cry almost immediately, and his wracking coughs told her that he had not yet recovered from the flu. He had always been a sickly child, and his inability to stay healthy for long stretches wreaked havoc both on his academic performance and their finances.
She clasped him to her breast, shushing him desperately, but it was already too late.
“Will you shut that kid up so I can sleep?” came the dreaded reprimand.
The child and mother both quietened down. Manjula checked her son’s nose, noticing the steady stream of phlegm pooling on his upper lip, and realized he would not be going to school today. She hated the days he had to stay home sick, because it meant she had to leave him alone and unattended. She would know no respite from her anxiety and fears until, long after sundown, she made her way back and saw that he was okay for herself.
Tucking him back into bed, she added her blanket to his and made sure he was warm and comfortable. She then brought in the laundry and set out two bottles of coconut oil, one for her daughter and one for her husband. She also set out their clothes for the day. Thus, having prepared everything, she then woke her husband up and directed a stream of information at him while he was still dusting the cobwebs of slumber from his mind.
“Leave some money on the bed,” he grunted, as he counted his quota of bites for the day.
Manjula extracted a 100 rupee note from her purse, leaving it on the bed as instructed. She had long ago given up trying to reason with her husband and had resigned herself to budgeting for the alcohol every week.
Bidding farewell to her daughter with a kiss, she set off down the unpaved road towards the bus stop.
The bus was scheduled to arrive at seven every morning, but was often late. On this occasion, she was forced to wait for over twenty minutes.
Great. Another day filled with passive aggressive questions.
The bus finally arrived, a large metal clunker painted a garish blue, with the seats, aisle and the doorway overflowing with passengers. Manjula squeezed herself between the men hanging from the door of the bus and tried to make her way in. Most days, the passengers would try to make room, but on some occasions, they stood, unmoving, in the hopes of some physical contact. She wondered how many carried the memories of this brief, perverse thrill to help them through their shitty days.
Standing wedged in between two men, she held her breath, ignoring the stench of sweat and long-standing filth that emanated from the crowd. Sweat began to trickle down her face, running past her eyebrows and stinging her eyes with relentless fire. She did not have enough room to raise her hands to wipe her face.
Well, at least I’m wide awake now.
Forty minutes later, a drenched Manjula disembarked from the bus, paying the conductor a few rupees under the ticket price. This was a bribe. No ticket issued meant the conductor did not have to declare the amount and could pocket the entire thing.
Manjula’s mind wandered back to her son. He would be alone at home by now, with no one to look after him. Once again, she sent up a half-hearted prayer to any deity that could find it in them to look after her son. And then, anxiety unabated, she made her way into the compound.
The security guard, gloating and proud in his uniform, did the routine process of entry logging, asking her the details of the houses she was visiting. He already knew the answers since she came here every day, but he used the questions as an opportunity to assert his authority. His tone was rough and brash, a daily challenge, seeking confrontation. And everyday, her silence bolstered his pride.
She took it as well as she could, resigning herself to this minor humiliation as a matter of routine.
Once the entry was logged, she made her way past the row of houses, approaching the last one on the left. She calculated her chances of getting a positive response if she asked for a half day. She couldn’t afford to lose any more of her wages. Her odds were not great. The residents were regularly miffed at her tardiness and would not be open to any requests. She cursed at her luck and at the bus driver.
Ringing the bell, she waited in the shade, visualizing the day before her. How soon before she was done with all the houses? Would she be able to get back to her son early? What if he took a turn for the worse? What if she skipped the laundry at two of the houses? That would save her an hour at least. But that meant travelling back during rush hour, which negated the time saved.
A couple of minutes had passed and the door did not open. Manjula rang the bell again.
Suddenly a new vista bloomed before her eyes. What if they were not in? Could her fortune be on the turn? Suddenly, a day with a lightened workload did not seem so grim. She could get to the next houses early, explain the situation with her son to them. They would not believe her, but that did not matter. They could not say so to her face. Some of them might threaten to cut her pay, but if even half allowed her some reprieve, why, she could be out of the compound by noon!
She would have the entire afternoon to care for her son. The image of herself lying under the double layer of blankets, cuddling with her son swam before her eyes, enticing her. And god knows she needed the rest. She could even buy him some candy from the bakery. Her husband would not be there to admonish her for the expenditure.
And, now that she thought of it, she would get a whole day at home with no threat of his severe remonstrations. She would be joyously, if fleetingly, unfettered.
This extended daydream crystallized in her head until its vividness took her breath away. Her resolve to make it a reality hardened, and she turned from the door, determined to make the most of this turn of events. She would make today a day to cherish. A day that would lighten the gloom of the darker days ahead. A day she would hold dearer than reason demanded.
As she stepped out onto the porch, she heard the lock click open behind her.
The door opened and a voice rang out.
“Late again, Manjula?”
Manjula turned and walked into the house, apologizing.
