Short story:
The excess baggage
by Niranjali Motha
The stench of the street is unbearable. The smell of heated dust
mingled with the rotten fruit and garbage strewn on the wayside does not
bother the Indians. My cotton clothes have absorbed much of the stench.
I feel sweaty and filthy. The scorching 33 Celsius degree temperature
aggravates my irritation. I feel the heat of the day burning my bare
skin.
I knock on the glass door of the pharmacy. I see a fragile face of a
girl peep over a computer. I push hard the self-locking door and enter
the premises. The girl welcomes me with a smile. I tender my
prescriptions.
A few of my friends back at home have given me their prescriptions
and long lists of cosmetics especially the branded whitening creams to
be purchased from India as it was relatively cheaper in comparison. She
swiftly grabs the pieces of paper and turns towards the many wall
cupboards.
I catch a glimpse of her pale skeleton face reflecting on the glass
of the open cupboard. She has large eyes, long lashes and a sharp nose.
She looks different to that of an average Indian woman. Her shabbily
draped light green floral patterned sari looks worn-out as much as her
appearance. Her ears are bare.
There was no thick golden chain to adorn her skinny neck not was
there any other piece of jewellery. I sense her emptiness. (In this part
of the subcontinent it is tradition for women to wear chunky gold
jewellery even for the day-to-day marketing. Displaying the wealth,
possession and purchasing power of individuals is a cultural norm of the
Tamil speaking community of India. It is not unusual for one to bump on
to a plump woman in a single hued gold bordered sari decked with chunky
designed jewellery in a crowded vegetable market.)
Cosmetics
The girl hands me a parcel of neatly packed medicines and cosmetics
and reads out the list to make sure she not missed out on any item on
the list.
I pay her for the bills and turn towards the door. "Madam" I hear her
not so feminine voice. "Are you from Bangalore?" she asks in Tamil. I
shake my head and say "No.... from Sri Lanka". I try to leave. "We have
a lot of Sri Lankan customers" she says in a bid to continue the
conversation.
She offers me a high wooden stool. I perch myself gratefully. "Where
are you staying madam?" I show her the hotel right across the wide road.
Her glances are delicate. Her presence makes me feel comfortable. We get
into a lengthy conversation. I gather a lot of information about this
girl ... Meena.
Meena is 24 years old and had completed her BSc. She was from a
remote village off Madurai in the deep south of India. She had come to
Chennai to earn her living and to stay with her married elder sister.
Her temporary home was two kilometres from the pharmacy.
She has been working at this pharmacy for the past 30 months all
seven days a week. Her monthly salary is a mere Rs. 2,000 in Indian
currency. A single day's absence costs her Rs. 100 which is deducted
from her salary at the end of the month. (I am no mathematician, yet I
wonder what theoretical formula is used for the calculation of her
salary deductions.)
Her sister is married to a Christian clergy man who is being
supported by the equally poor congregation. Hence her meagre salary has
to support nearly eight members in her family including her ailing aged
parents still living in the village.
A melancholy empty feeling surges loneliness within me. I treat her
with a sympathetic smile and leave her presence carrying an ever
increasing weight in my heart. I try to brush away my thoughts of Meena
and continue with my schedule. I am here on holiday, looking forward to
a trip to the hill country.
That was the first day I met Meena
Pharmacy
From the private balcony of my hotel room I could see Meena in the
pharmacy. It is the visiting hour for the Mission Hospital. I see Meena
attending to the customers. I wait for the crowds to ease and stroll
towards the pharmacy to invite Meena to dine with me. She agrees and
promises to come to my room. I walk back to the hotel with an eagerness
to have a soul searching chat with her.
The Hotel I stay and the famous Mission Hospital are separated by a
huge garbage dump in an otherwise bare land. I am puzzled as to how a
reputed hospital has failed to take action against the offenders. To add
insult to injury, the area is dedicated and named after the current
chief minister of Tamil Nadu.
The time is about 10.30 pm. Meena walks in, apologising profusely for
her delay. I assume it to be unusual for a woman to be working till that
late. Meena negates my assumption. Her working hours are from 9 am to 10
pm. Sometimes even longer hours.
She looks at the spare bed in my room where I had laid all the saris
I had purchased that morning. Meena wants to take a look at them. Meena
was taking each and every piece of the material into her hands so
carefully as though she was fondling a new born baby. She runs her
fingers on some of the clothing to feel the texture of the material. I
give her the liberty to stretch and unpack the neatly folded pieces of
my cherished purchases while making a mental note of the pieces she
admired the best.
I ask her to select a few pieces she likes the best. She picks up a
pink sari that had a silver thread work and a peacock green shalwar
material which has a contrasting coloured shawl.
"These are the best purchases", says Meena emphasising the syllable
'R'. I offer the selections to her. Meena refuses to accept them.
"No....No madam...you had bought them for yourself" she dismisses my
offer waving both her hands. I retreat not to embarrass the young lass.
Conversation
We enjoy a 'hearty' Indian dinner. Throughout my conversation, I
notice the fragile and wasted appearance of Meena. The more I watch and
work on a graphic, to draw a portrait of Meena with much flesh and
blood. She possesses a structure of a shapely Indian beauty.
It was nearing midnight. I offer to get a hotel taxi to drop Meena at
her residence. Meena refuses. "No.... Madam .... I am used to walking
.... I can manage ....." she utters to my dismay.
She swiftly walks away with quick long steps leaving me in the dark.
I turn back cursing myself for my upbringing which has never permitted
me to leave home unaccompanied after 6 pm in my prime age.
The day dawns with the sound of vegetable and fruit vendors outdoing
one another in the race of their handcarts. A woman carrying a basket of
marigolds and roses pushes herself through the racing carts. The
continuous ringing of the scores of cycle rickshaws keep pace with the
moving crowds. I watch a group of Anglo-Asian medical students walking
towards the hospital for their internship.
The African doctors, with whom I have made friends, speak immaculate
Tamil. I had the blessing of sitting with them for a meal and to catch
upon their experiences in learning medicine in a foreign land.
Pedestrians
Another new day dawns with the same routine of bicycle bells, vendors
and pedestrians. I was sitting on my private balcony, watching the many
activities of people on the street. I get a call from the reception
informing me of a visitor. It's only 7 o'clock. I hurriedly reach the
lobby. Meena greets me with the fresh face.
She is clad in a shalwar too big for her frame. One side of her
attire was sliding off her shoulder exposing a patched inner garment.
Meena was clutching an ever-silver lunch carrier hidden behind a book.
"I brought breakfast for you". She says with a radiant smile. I feel
helpless and at a loss for words. I am urged to offer her a hug the only
gift that would compensate her gratitude.
We sit in the restaurant. The steward shows his displeasure over the
not so elite visitor of mine. I ignore his glance and place my order.
Meena enjoys the hotel food while I relish the love filled Iddly' she
has brought from home. She takes a look at the wall clock and glances at
me with an apologetic smile asking for permission to take leave. I tell
her that it's only 8 a.m. and that she has a full hour to spare. "No,
madam.... I am studying for an IT degree... I have one hour class in the
mornings... I am already late ..." she says to my greatest awe.
I met Meena whenever time permitted her.
I took a four-day trip to the hill country to visit my adopted sister
and family. My stay at Nilgiris the queen of hills' was pleasant. I had
the opportunity to take Christa my sister and her children Beulah, Willy
and Christopher to the Ooty Botanical Gardens.
We travelled in the blue mountain toy train and had a break at
Koththagiri a mission station. We took boat rides in the famous Ooty
Lake and met many of my friends at the Christian Mission Service (CMC)
Children's home at 'Underfell' and 'Silverdale' in Coonoor.
We enjoyed the wayside food sold hot in the cold weather and did not
miss the home made chocolates, the cardamom flavoured tea and the fried
Ooty Lake fish. It was a contrast to my stay in Chennai. It was
relatively cheaper living in Coonoor than Chennai and very much cheaper
than Colombo. Christa and her husband Michael made all possible means to
make my holiday a comfortable stay. They cooked fresh vegetables picked
from their garden.
I enjoyed the batter fried cauliflower and stuffed peppers Christa
made. Michael is a chef in a missionary holiday bungalow in Coonoor;
hence he was well versed in preparing continental delicacies.
Therefore, I had the luxury of enjoying an array of dishes which came
from the different parts of the globe. Life in the hill capital was slow
and pleasing the varied hued blooms especially the 'poppy' and 'roses'
were in abundance. Even the wayside wild flowers had a fresh fragrance.
Departure
I am back in Chennai packing the bag for my departure to Colombo the
next day. My flight was scheduled for the morning. Hence I am supposed
to leave the hotel at the break of day. My holiday had been both
relaxing and satisfying. I had met many of my old- time friends. I had
spent a fruitful and quality time with my sister and her family. But
most of all I have had a very economical shopping spree.
It was July which is considered an inauspicious time of the year for
the Tamils. No festival or celebrations take place during this period in
Tamil Nadu. Hence all shops were selling goods at a reduced price with
high percentages of discounts. Therefore, my shopping cost was three
times less than I projected.
My most precious buy was a delicate porcelain vase that had optic
fibre decorations which I bought in Ooty. Christa and Michael had done
the honours by bargaining with the shopkeeper to the best of their
abilities for me to possess the unique ornament.
I am happy with all the purchases I had made. Many friends loaded me
with gifts for my family. Despite my objection, Christa and Michael
packed my bags with fresh, peaches, plums and pears plucked from their
own garden. I sadly had to part with them at the Mettupaalayam railway
station as the vase I bought was too precious for me. I couldn't risk a
crack on it, since I was conscious of its weight. The fruit were too
heavy to be carried in the long railway platform. I was booked on
carriage number three which was a considerable distance from the
entrance to the platform. Fortunately, a woman who was selling strands
of jasmines in the station in the middle of the night graciously
accepted the fruit from me.
I was happy to be relieved of the extra burden of the package,
thought it was heart breaking to be giving them to a stranger. For the
fruits were picked afresh specially for me in the morning and there was
too much love in the manner Michael packed each and every fruit.
Secondly, it would have been a luxury for me to eat the fruits in the
scorching hot weather in Chennai. However, with the 'steadfast mind' I
became generous to a stranger!
Uniforms
I may have met Meena at least eight days during my stay in Chennai.
On those days, I saw her only wearing two sets of clothing
alternatively. The faded green sari and the large shalwar were more or
less her uniforms.
Reality in South India is much in contrast to the illusive
'fashioned' world we watch in the movies. Freedom for women is
restricted. Meena is an example to this shady culture. Women are
considered an 'endangered species' and are protected in the family unit.
They are restricted in the interactions and social movements however
when it comes to exploiting their labour no one demarcates a boundary.
Meena's future and her fate will be much more painful than what it is
today. A day will dawn when society will force her to be married,
failing which she will be ridiculed.
Meena is from a poor family; hence she does not have sufficient
wealth to offer as a dowry.
Yet, since she is educated, no man will marry her for nothing,
unless, she meets a person who will value her life and love over wealth.
The dowry system in this part of the world in hilarious.
The calculation of the wealth for the dowry is done according to the
family background, appearance, education, and caste if a groom is
educated he is eligible for an educated bride and a specific 'rate' and
to add injury to insult the educated bride too has a price.
Her 'payment rate' also is higher according to her qualifications.
The clergy families too have a dowry system according to their class and
creed.
In such cases my dilemma is whether a poor girl should be educated?
In this context I secretly battle with myself whether it will be worth
the sacrifices Meena is making to enlighten herself?
Her battle for survival is a vicious cycle. She is entangled in a low
paid job with long hours of hard labour that exhausts her health. She
has a burden of a large family. To Meena, employment or her current
employer are not options but definitions. She has to continue in this
struggle at least for her survival till she breathes her last.
I am waiting for Meena's arrival for our last supper. I feel a sense
of sadness about leaving this place that gave me a deserving break from
my hectic work schedule back at home.
I have enjoyed my carefree independence. I am also sad that I am
leaving Meena whose burdens I have emotionally shared over the past
couple of days. I am sad as my existence has not been of any use to her
life.
I have not even been a part of a solution to this girl's life
situation. I have witnessed her grief and her struggles but I am in no
position to bring a ray of hope for the deserving young girl. We will be
departing in a few more hours on our destined journeys.
Meena walks in with a tired look. It is nearly 11 in the night. She
repeatedly questions me about my next visit. I tell her that I am not
sure, I feel the sadness in her eyes as she openly confesses her feeling
of loneliness. I feel the same. We had shared a soul-binding friendship
during this short period.
Darkness
Meena hands me a heavy cloth bag as she bids farewell to me. She is
now preparing to take her usual stroll back home. The side strip of the
road is swallowed in pitch darkness. She walks comfortably to the
stretch in the dark.
Clutching the ever-silver lunch carrier and the exercise book she
launches herself to the dimly-lit road. A very dark shadow of the girl
stretches across the street and accompanies her. I wait for her shadow
to face from my sight and walk to my room to re-pack my bags to include
Meena's gift.
I unpack the heavy parcel she had so carefully wrapped with layers of
newspapers. The last sheet of paper reveals three glass jars. They are
bottles of pickles. Each jar containing a different variety and make. I
carry them carefully to the table to re-wrap them with my worn clothes
to secure from breakage. Accidentally my eye catches the item price on
the label. I calculate the sum... it amounts to Rs. 320.
Nearly five days of wages of this fragile woman!
My efforts to control my tears fail, I allow it to flow in abundance.
I re-pack my porcelain vase to fit into my check-in baggage.... the
three glass jars will be my cabin baggage. |