The Lonely Walk

The morning breeze always brought a breath of fresh air. Almost always except for the days when the rain clogged the main drain in front of our shanty. And when that happened the stench rose before the sun making the night shorter. Today was one such day when it was still a starry night that my eyes opened to. I wrapped the grey shawl over my head and mouth and like a resurrected mummy walked out of the creaking door. The sky had shed its last tear for the night but the gloom still lingered. I walked through the desolate alley (where a pair of drenched street dogs were making the most of the pre-dawn privacy) till I reached the peepal tree. Ziauddin was there, with a head full of jute-like hair bent over a few glowing logs of wood. It wasn't particularly chilly but habit had him lite a poor man's bonfire. You could always find him under that tree at this hour. In the coolie-lines where hunger heralded an early dawn, Ziauddin was the earliest riser. And he was my friend.

Ziauddin drove a white ambassador in which the high and the mighty babus of the factory traveled. But he never spoke of them. The deals they struck and the machinations they spawned in the rear seats were locked away in some dark invisible chamber of loyalty. Ziauddin only spoke of his wife and two little children. He often rambled about the future he saw for them and the prince and princess he was going to make them one day. Today, while my body stayed ever-attentive to the old mullah's discourse my mind lacked the patience for it. It was that sort of a morning. One which reminds you of the insignificance of your existence and quotidian duties but does not provide the courage to break free. Yes, it was like every morning. So I got up to say goodbye to my friend and kept walking towards the main road.

That main road was a thoroughfare of human heads, most of which like mine were wrapped in tattered shawls. Some of the heads huddled around the side stalls sipping garam chai. Every now and then a little kid ran across the street dexterously holding mud cups to reach the steaming beverage to the drivers and the crew of the buses that stopped there only for a fleeting moment. I used to take one of these buses when I was younger. Now there is no rush. I walk the way. The entire five miles. Besides, it is the only time I have for myself. So I start walking. I walk past the textile factory, the post office, the library, the police chowki, the recently built shopping plaza, the masjid, and the high water tank before my knee starts to hurt. It is strange that each day as I walk past these landmarks I anticipate the pain. That it manifests in my knees and not my heart is an absurdity if you ask me. For these buildings hold before me a cyclorama of what has been a pedestrian life. As a child I had desired to work in that textile factory like my father. I dreamed of transforming into a hard-nosed character like Amitabh in Coolie. But father wouldn't have any of it. He said the mill was not a place for little girls. So I wept and wept like a little girl till I fell asleep, and in my sleep I graduated to dreams that befit my father's daughter. My dreams now chased the lovely postmistress who worked at the post office. I wished to walk like her one day through the sabzi bazaar with not whistles to follow but just respect-filled murmurs. That it entailed a little more than wearing a khaki uniform was something I hadn't thought. So as time passed the murmurs never came while the whistles became harsher.  As I grew from girl to woman the doors of one dream after another shut me out. One day I took my torn desires (and my khaki uniform) to the police station next door. By now I wanted to be a police woman (perhaps to arrest all those who quelled my dreams). But before I could voice my desire the hawaldars guffawed and called me a weakling and a dimwit. They said that to be a police woman I must be tough. And to be tough I must wash a lot of linen and mop a lot of floors and do plenty dishes for practice. So you see, that is how I became a maid and remained so for the next thirty years.

The knee pain has forced me to seek support of the hollow concrete pipe lying on the roadside. The pipe is a piece of the Corporation's promise to have an underground pipeline to pass drain water. While it never served the bloated promise it has become my general resting spot. Inside it lives a wretched family of three. If I had known their name I would tell you. But I never asked. To me they were just the smiling faces of  society's garbage. Much like Ziauddin and I. I spend a little time talking to the woman while she suckles the little boy. Last night the slanting rain had drenched the inside. She fears that if it happens again the baby might catch fever. Before taking leave I promise to get her a few spare jute sacks from the vegetable market to cover one end of the pipe. The pain has subsided and a I must continue my walk now.

Last night's rain has left the potholes brimming with muddy water and as I walk along the roadside an alert subconscious tells me to stay away from them. Every now and then a mischievous bus-driver gets the urge to drive over these potholes to give an early morning mud bath to an unsuspecting passerby. I keep walking till I reach another thoroughfare, and then another and yet another. I like this endless aimless walk. It reminds me of just how life has been. But even life comes to a stop and so must my walk. So I take the last turn before I reach the row of houses. Along the roadside the fish mongers and the vegetable vendors have opened shop. Like everyday they are outshouting each other with some minor vying from the milkman too; Their pestering is only interrupted by an occasional ringing of cycle bells and car horns. It is now past daybreak and the roads have started to brim with activity. Most faces in the crowd are unknown to me and many have frowns on them (perhaps from last night's domestic quarrel); Yet together they bring life to the place. I sometimes wonder if it is not this urge to cling to life that keeps us all together. But then I am no philosopher. Maybe I will ask the sahib today.

Behind the rows of houses is a little pond. It is a refuge less to the few ducks that languish in it and more to the womenfolk of my kind. We, the maids conflate in small puddles along the sides of this pond every morning, mostly to delay the start of our mundane day's work. It is the best part of my day if you ask. Laali is the youngest and the romantic among us. Her interest in men liberally hop from security guards to sweeper-boys to drivers. Off late she has set her eyes on the teenage boy who lives in that third-floor flat across the pond. His parents are well to do flat-owners. While Mangala (the eldest in our clan) sits warning the bubbly girl of the perils of breaking class-ic walls I struggle within as to which side I must take. Laali of-course is not the stereotypical love-deprived-child. There s enough love floating in her family. Her mother married her father's brother, a man who's more amorous towards Laali than his wife. Her father of-course is nor dead (nor a drunkard as you may be already assuming) and works as an electrician in a nearby store. He though is a man with a supple spine. I don't blame the girl for misdirected love for misdirection has been the only way she has ever known. Mangala and Laali are my friends too, like Ziauddin. I must get up now for it's almost time for the sahib's cup of morning tea.

The walk from the pond to the sahib's flat is short. The pathway smells sweet with the fallen flowers from the bakul tree making one wish to spend all day under its canopy. But I am no poet to ruminate over nature's beauty. So I walk through the aroma till I have reached the flat. The flat has been my workplace for the past twenty years. Inside it lives a man, all by himself. I do not know if he was ever married or has a son or daughter. It is impossible to illicit such details from a man of monosyllables; Besides I have always felt less burdened without those details. Still it is strange that having known each other for so long we know so little about one another. So like everyday I make tea and keep at his bedside. I do the dishes, I wash the clothes, I mop the floor. Some days I also use the broom to clean the cobwebs hanging high in the wall corners. With each passing day it is becoming difficult to reach the high places. The word of my arthritis must have reached the spiders as they weave higher and farther. Sahib does not complain like before. He must have tried cleaning them himself and felt the pain. Age is such a wonderful leveler.

Once all is done I sit on the veranda and look down at the busy road. I fear times like these when I am free for the questions I fear most crop their ugly head. They say it is a virtue to be honest, hardworking and sincere. I have heard actors say it in the movies,  judges on TV shows, and babas in the temple. I do not know what these words truly mean. To me they have been a way of life, so perhaps I do not know their true meaning. I wonder if these wonderful virtues come with a reward. Maybe I am long due for one? Will the hard work of my dish-washing be remembered after I am gone? Will anyone talk about the maid who found the gold earring lying on the floor and returned it to the owner? What about the days when I reported for duty with fever that in other professions warrant a sick-leave ? What legacy shall I leave other than just one of those shawl covered heads walking through the foggy dawn of this city? I curse myself for these questions. It is only the wise that know the answers and thus have the right to ask profound questions. For the dimwit life is not to reason why. I bid the sahib goodbye and prepare for the long walk home.

On the way I see the same buildings, the various crossroads of my life. I see the high water tank. It stands like a monster. If I had read the War of the Worlds I would have thought that a Martian had landed. But I am not a literate soul and my imaginations have a limited reach. So to me it is still just a water tank. Something in my gut is telling me that I must climb it. I must conquer it. A compelling urge to do something yet not knowing what is dragging me towards those rusty iron stairs. It is madness. What would everyone think when they see a shawl clad old maid climbing a water tank? They may call the police. I may go to jail. I may end up in that same chowki as an inmate. What a shameful turn of events that would be. What would father say if he was alive today? I have already climbed two dozen rungs and a bout of vertigo is creeping in. Yet nothing can stop my climb now. The knees are shaking and a sharp pain is gripping my spine. The horizon is looking like a dark sleeping reptile and the city lights are showing over the tree tops. The wind has caught my shawl and it is fluttering like a flag. I feel liberated, I feel free. I feel there is no turning back. Down below I can hear murmurs. Or are those frantic shouts from a distance. They must be cheering for me. The girl who became a maid and the maid who climbed the city's tallest tower. They will remember me now. They will remember me forever. Damn the honesty, the integrity, the sincerity. Damn the hawalders and damn everyone. I see the smiling face of Ziauddin. I should have bid him a final adieu. I feel sorry for the sahib. Mangala will find a better maid for him. Maybe Laali. The sahib will teach her from his books and she wont grow to be me. The wind has caught sail and I must fly now. My hands slip.