Sunday Observer Online
 

Home

Sunday, 20 July 2014

Untitled-1

observer
 ONLINE


OTHER PUBLICATIONS


OTHER LINKS

Marriage Proposals
Classified
Government Gazette

 Short story:

The excess baggage

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.

 | EMAIL |   PRINTABLE VIEW | FEEDBACK

LANKAPUVATH - National News Agency of Sri Lank
www.batsman.com
Telecommunications Regulatory Commission of Sri Lanka (TRCSL)
www.army.lk
www.news.lk
www.defence.lk
Donate Now | defence.lk
www.apiwenuwenapi.co.uk
 

| News | Editorial | Finance | Features | Political | Security | Sports | Spectrum | Montage | Impact | World | Obituaries | Junior | Youth |

 
 

Produced by Lake House Copyright © 2014 The Associated Newspapers of Ceylon Ltd.

Comments and suggestions to : Web Editor