It had poured all night and even though the worst of the showers had ebbed the cloying humidity still hung in the air. All over the beach road, people woke up to face the wrath of the monsoons. Large coconut branches had ripped off trees and fallen onto the cars parked below causing minor damage. The lithe dark man who climbed the tree for coconuts at exorbitant costs was going to be in demand; not even the stingy old women who loved to bargain would dare today. But he would have to wait till drier weather to start removing the sky high branches that threatened to rip off in the next storm. School children bundled in bright yellow raincoats negotiated their way to school, splashing their way through the rain filled potholes. The street outside their school had unfortunately not flooded, depriving them of unscheduled holidays they so looked forward to these monsoon months. Lovers walked on the beach arms interlocked, faces damp from the faint drizzle that still persisted.
Not everyone embraced the rains with such open arms. In the slum colony bordering the beach road the effect of the rain had been devastating. Shama and her three children had not slept all night. Armed with pots, pans, plastic buckets whatever they could lay their hands on they frantically tried to protect their little ramshackle shanty from the waters onslaught. There had been no money to tar the roof before the monsoons and it leaked all over. Strategically placed pans tried to catch as much of the water as possible but as the fury of the storm increased it soon seemed like no roof existed and the bedding had to be pushed to one side and covered in plastic sheets while they sat shivering in the few dry patches left. By dawn they were exhausted and when the rain ebbed a bit the two little ones fell asleep in the damp corner while Shama and the oldest daughter Durga surveyed the damage trying to see if any of their possessions could be salvaged.
There was no way Shama could avoid going in to work today even though she really needed to put the house in order and make sure it would weather the next storm with less damage. She had already missed work thrice this month when the little fellow had malaria. One more day off meant either a cut in salary or a threat of dismissal from the job. Not that any of the places she worked at could really manage without her. Shama was cook, maid, cleaner and nanny to three of the finest families on the beach road. Without her around to kick-start their mornings with freshly brewed tea they would be lost. Yet they were all too quick with their threats. “ Do you think we can’t manage without you? There are plenty waiting for your job at the salary I pay. Even five minutes late once more and you are out”, Ashima had threatened and she was usually the most lenient of her employers. And there was truth in what she said; with the influx of cheap labor not just from her home state but also all over the north there were people ready to do her job at half the cost. She dug out the ancient umbrella given to her by Mrs. Tailor, who thought she was being magnanimous and though it was almost falling apart it offered enough protection from the drizzle. As she entered the building and greeted the watchman, he looked at his watch and warned her, “ She’s already called on the intercom twice to find out if you were here. You better hurry up; she seems to be in a terrible mood”. “ Isn’t she always,” replied Shama but she quickened her steps and ran up the three floors without waiting for the lift.
The morning went well enough. The Tailors were less demanding than usual; they had only two cups of tea each instead of the constant stream they usually demanded. Mrs. Tailor had for a change had already made up her mind about what needed to be made for breakfast and lunch so no time was wasted trying to figure out menus at the last minute.
She reached Ashima’s house for her second job on time, which was a relief. She liked Ashima, a single mother like her who helped out with money and kids stuff when needed. But she had taken enough advantage of her good nature these last few months and her patience was wearing thin. Ashima was in a hurry to leave for work and had already eaten breakfast. Shama packed her a quick sandwich lunch instead of the more elaborate Indian meal she did everyday and then went to wake up the little boy and get him ready for school. This was Shama’s favorite part of the day with nobody breathing down her neck. She could relax for a bit with tea and leftover bread from last night while Ishaan had his bath and got ready. He was an independent little fellow though he was only seven and he no longer wanted her help buttoning his shirt or putting on the tie, a task which she had always found cumbersome.
She dropped him to the school bus and was back; she still had the evening meal to cook but by now she was in control. She could probably manage a trip home to check if her own children were all right and pack them a snack to take to their afternoon school before going to her third job. The municipal school they went to supplied a mid class snack but this mixture of watery rice and lentils with no flavor was abhorred by the two little ones and they usually starved in the break rather than stand in line for it. Only her older daughter, sensible little Durga diligently took her plastic mickey mouse box, handed down from Ishaan and filled it with the mixture. If she didn’t eat it she would bring it home and on evenings when the food supplies were running low it was a welcome addition.
She had almost finished cooking when the cell phone rang. In the midst of cleaning up the countertop where the lentils had splattered because of a burst valve in the pressure cooker she let it ring. Ashima had given her an old phone to communicate with her for emergencies on days she was stuck at work late and needed her to check on Ishaan and it hardly ever rang. It was not her employer’s call and the caller id number was unknown to her. Compelled by its persistent rings, she finally answered , phone pressed between her ear and shoulder still scrubbing away.
It was Durga calling from the nearby grocery store and she was hysterical. Her little brother Suraj all of four years old was missing. Durga had given him some tea and glucose biscuits after he woke up mid morning and while he and his sister Meena were adding to the mess in the house, she had gone off to borrow some rice from a neighbor to cook for lunch. Their supplies had been lost in the deluge and the kids would be hungry soon. When she returned, having stopped to survey the damage done to the other shanties, Suraj was gone. She looked everywhere; sometimes he liked to play in the drains that flowed behind the colony and many a time he hung outside the sweet shop eyeing the candy till the old man who ran the shop gave him a lemon drop or a toffee. But today she had looked everywhere; the neighbors had given up cleaning up their homes and had joined in the search but the boy was nowhere to be found.
Shama abandoned her scrubbing and without stopping to shut the kitchen windows or retrieve her bag filled with the leftover food from the two houses, rushed down the stairs past the startled watchman. She jumped into the first auto rickshaw she could find. The ride would cost ten rupees, money she could ill afford which is why she usually walked both ways. But now was no time to consider that. Her little boy, her favorite child was gone and she had to find him. She could not afford to lose him like she had lost his father to a train accident he had while crossing the tracks. Suraj’s father had been the closest to the soul mate she had ever found. He was kind to her, had a steady job as a welder even if it was far away and he never used her money for alcohol or beat her up like the girls’ father had. She had just about recovered from his death and she would not be able to bear it if anything happened to Suraj.
The neighbors were still searching when she reached but she could see that by now they had abandoned any hope that he was nearby. Each had his own theory about the boy’s fate. Some had dark tales to recount of a kidnapping ring that kidnapped children, maimed them and put them to work for a begging syndicate. Others mentioned in hushed whispers foreigners who did bad bad things to children, especially boys. Shama was now very scared and when someone suggested going to the police, she agreed even though she had heard horror stories about what happened at the station to poor people accused of petty crimes, who were unfortunate enough to land up there. A group was formed consisting mostly of the unemployed men, who were the only ones home that afternoon and they marched to the nearest police station.
By now Shama was hysterical and when the cops made her wait her turn on the bench outside, she got even more agitated. Finally she barged in and in between sobbing and hurling abuse at the system accused them, “If a child from one of those fancy buildings were missing you and your entire force would be out looking. Are our children’s lives worthless.” The officer in charge, his mouth red from the betel nut he chewed, ignored her and told one of the men, “ Come back if the boy has been missing for twenty four hours; then we can register a case of kidnapping. We can do nothing now. He’s probably out foraging for food. These women leave little children alone at home and expect us to be their keepers. Get her out now before I get her thrown out.”
By evening the neighbors had retreated to their own houses getting down to the business of preparing evening meals and sharing the days story with those who had come in from work. Shama and her two girls were the only ones still looking, the little girl asking every passerby,” Have you seen my little brother.” Her phone rang but she ignored it. It must be Ashima late at work again and wanting her to take care of her son. Well she had her own son to take care of now; other peoples children could wait. The phone kept ringing; that woman could be persistent but Shama barely heard it with all the thoughts churning in her head. By now the little one was crying; she had not eaten all day but Shama was too numb to hear her. It was left to the girl to light up the little kerosene stove and boil up the rice she had borrowed that afternoon and feed her sister. She then tried coaxing her mother into have a few bites but all Shama did was mumble, “My poor boy, he’s so afraid of the dark.”
A knock at her door dragged her out of her reverie. It was a neighbor just getting back from work. “ Shama there’s a driver of a fancy black car asking where you live at the shops outside. You better go see what he wants.” Her curiosity was piqued. Fancy cars didn’t often venture this far; the muddy excuse for a road leading to the slum colony saw occasional auto rickshaws and maybe a tempo or two. The neighbor almost dragged Shama to the main road and there she recognized the car and the driver as Ashima’s. What they were doing here so late she could not guess. Maybe something had gone missing from the house and they had come to accuse her was her first reaction but then she put the uncharitable thought about her employer away and approached the car. The driver saw her coming and knocked on the door, which opened, and Ashima and Ishaan stepped out and in her arms wrapped in her soft silk sari was her son. Shama ran to her afraid that something had happened to her little boy, that he was injured or worse dead. But Ashima hushed her with her finger, “ He’s just fallen asleep after crying for you,” and handed the sleeping bundle into the waiting arms of his mother. Shama was hysterical with relief and would not stop kissing the little boys face at which point he woke up and brushing her aside said, “ I want to go to bed? I’m tired”.
Putting him to bed, Shama heard the entire story from the driver who had accompanied her to the house. Ashima had driven home herself after making sure the family was all right. Apparently Suraj had landed up outside Ishaan’s school, a good hours walk from the slum. God knows where he had walked all afternoon and how many traffic clogged roads he had crossed. At closing time when Ishaan came out he saw him outside the crushed ice-lolly stall, whose owner was shooing him away. Ishaan recognized him from occasional Sundays when he accompanied his mother to work. He went to him and telling him the ice-lolly would give him a cold bought him candy floss instead and somehow managed to persuade the school bus driver that he was a friend he needed to take home. Reaching home he called his mother at work who tried unsuccessfully to reach Shama all evening. She hurried home, fed both kids who were quietly playing with Ishaan’s cars and trains and then put them in the car and brought Shama’s son to her.
The driver left and Shama asked him to tell their employer she’d be back at work next day. She would have to thank Ashima herself and she could not think how she would ever repay the debt. She looked at her sleeping son who stirred in his sleep and seeing her he said’ “ Where’s my friend Ishaan? Can he come stay with us?”
Samina Motlekar is a writer based in Bombay. She has just finished being part of the Summer Writers Colony at The New School, New York and is working on a collection of short stories.
Not everyone embraced the rains with such open arms. In the slum colony bordering the beach road the effect of the rain had been devastating. Shama and her three children had not slept all night. Armed with pots, pans, plastic buckets whatever they could lay their hands on they frantically tried to protect their little ramshackle shanty from the waters onslaught. There had been no money to tar the roof before the monsoons and it leaked all over. Strategically placed pans tried to catch as much of the water as possible but as the fury of the storm increased it soon seemed like no roof existed and the bedding had to be pushed to one side and covered in plastic sheets while they sat shivering in the few dry patches left. By dawn they were exhausted and when the rain ebbed a bit the two little ones fell asleep in the damp corner while Shama and the oldest daughter Durga surveyed the damage trying to see if any of their possessions could be salvaged.
There was no way Shama could avoid going in to work today even though she really needed to put the house in order and make sure it would weather the next storm with less damage. She had already missed work thrice this month when the little fellow had malaria. One more day off meant either a cut in salary or a threat of dismissal from the job. Not that any of the places she worked at could really manage without her. Shama was cook, maid, cleaner and nanny to three of the finest families on the beach road. Without her around to kick-start their mornings with freshly brewed tea they would be lost. Yet they were all too quick with their threats. “ Do you think we can’t manage without you? There are plenty waiting for your job at the salary I pay. Even five minutes late once more and you are out”, Ashima had threatened and she was usually the most lenient of her employers. And there was truth in what she said; with the influx of cheap labor not just from her home state but also all over the north there were people ready to do her job at half the cost. She dug out the ancient umbrella given to her by Mrs. Tailor, who thought she was being magnanimous and though it was almost falling apart it offered enough protection from the drizzle. As she entered the building and greeted the watchman, he looked at his watch and warned her, “ She’s already called on the intercom twice to find out if you were here. You better hurry up; she seems to be in a terrible mood”. “ Isn’t she always,” replied Shama but she quickened her steps and ran up the three floors without waiting for the lift.
The morning went well enough. The Tailors were less demanding than usual; they had only two cups of tea each instead of the constant stream they usually demanded. Mrs. Tailor had for a change had already made up her mind about what needed to be made for breakfast and lunch so no time was wasted trying to figure out menus at the last minute.
She reached Ashima’s house for her second job on time, which was a relief. She liked Ashima, a single mother like her who helped out with money and kids stuff when needed. But she had taken enough advantage of her good nature these last few months and her patience was wearing thin. Ashima was in a hurry to leave for work and had already eaten breakfast. Shama packed her a quick sandwich lunch instead of the more elaborate Indian meal she did everyday and then went to wake up the little boy and get him ready for school. This was Shama’s favorite part of the day with nobody breathing down her neck. She could relax for a bit with tea and leftover bread from last night while Ishaan had his bath and got ready. He was an independent little fellow though he was only seven and he no longer wanted her help buttoning his shirt or putting on the tie, a task which she had always found cumbersome.
She dropped him to the school bus and was back; she still had the evening meal to cook but by now she was in control. She could probably manage a trip home to check if her own children were all right and pack them a snack to take to their afternoon school before going to her third job. The municipal school they went to supplied a mid class snack but this mixture of watery rice and lentils with no flavor was abhorred by the two little ones and they usually starved in the break rather than stand in line for it. Only her older daughter, sensible little Durga diligently took her plastic mickey mouse box, handed down from Ishaan and filled it with the mixture. If she didn’t eat it she would bring it home and on evenings when the food supplies were running low it was a welcome addition.
She had almost finished cooking when the cell phone rang. In the midst of cleaning up the countertop where the lentils had splattered because of a burst valve in the pressure cooker she let it ring. Ashima had given her an old phone to communicate with her for emergencies on days she was stuck at work late and needed her to check on Ishaan and it hardly ever rang. It was not her employer’s call and the caller id number was unknown to her. Compelled by its persistent rings, she finally answered , phone pressed between her ear and shoulder still scrubbing away.
It was Durga calling from the nearby grocery store and she was hysterical. Her little brother Suraj all of four years old was missing. Durga had given him some tea and glucose biscuits after he woke up mid morning and while he and his sister Meena were adding to the mess in the house, she had gone off to borrow some rice from a neighbor to cook for lunch. Their supplies had been lost in the deluge and the kids would be hungry soon. When she returned, having stopped to survey the damage done to the other shanties, Suraj was gone. She looked everywhere; sometimes he liked to play in the drains that flowed behind the colony and many a time he hung outside the sweet shop eyeing the candy till the old man who ran the shop gave him a lemon drop or a toffee. But today she had looked everywhere; the neighbors had given up cleaning up their homes and had joined in the search but the boy was nowhere to be found.
Shama abandoned her scrubbing and without stopping to shut the kitchen windows or retrieve her bag filled with the leftover food from the two houses, rushed down the stairs past the startled watchman. She jumped into the first auto rickshaw she could find. The ride would cost ten rupees, money she could ill afford which is why she usually walked both ways. But now was no time to consider that. Her little boy, her favorite child was gone and she had to find him. She could not afford to lose him like she had lost his father to a train accident he had while crossing the tracks. Suraj’s father had been the closest to the soul mate she had ever found. He was kind to her, had a steady job as a welder even if it was far away and he never used her money for alcohol or beat her up like the girls’ father had. She had just about recovered from his death and she would not be able to bear it if anything happened to Suraj.
The neighbors were still searching when she reached but she could see that by now they had abandoned any hope that he was nearby. Each had his own theory about the boy’s fate. Some had dark tales to recount of a kidnapping ring that kidnapped children, maimed them and put them to work for a begging syndicate. Others mentioned in hushed whispers foreigners who did bad bad things to children, especially boys. Shama was now very scared and when someone suggested going to the police, she agreed even though she had heard horror stories about what happened at the station to poor people accused of petty crimes, who were unfortunate enough to land up there. A group was formed consisting mostly of the unemployed men, who were the only ones home that afternoon and they marched to the nearest police station.
By now Shama was hysterical and when the cops made her wait her turn on the bench outside, she got even more agitated. Finally she barged in and in between sobbing and hurling abuse at the system accused them, “If a child from one of those fancy buildings were missing you and your entire force would be out looking. Are our children’s lives worthless.” The officer in charge, his mouth red from the betel nut he chewed, ignored her and told one of the men, “ Come back if the boy has been missing for twenty four hours; then we can register a case of kidnapping. We can do nothing now. He’s probably out foraging for food. These women leave little children alone at home and expect us to be their keepers. Get her out now before I get her thrown out.”
By evening the neighbors had retreated to their own houses getting down to the business of preparing evening meals and sharing the days story with those who had come in from work. Shama and her two girls were the only ones still looking, the little girl asking every passerby,” Have you seen my little brother.” Her phone rang but she ignored it. It must be Ashima late at work again and wanting her to take care of her son. Well she had her own son to take care of now; other peoples children could wait. The phone kept ringing; that woman could be persistent but Shama barely heard it with all the thoughts churning in her head. By now the little one was crying; she had not eaten all day but Shama was too numb to hear her. It was left to the girl to light up the little kerosene stove and boil up the rice she had borrowed that afternoon and feed her sister. She then tried coaxing her mother into have a few bites but all Shama did was mumble, “My poor boy, he’s so afraid of the dark.”
A knock at her door dragged her out of her reverie. It was a neighbor just getting back from work. “ Shama there’s a driver of a fancy black car asking where you live at the shops outside. You better go see what he wants.” Her curiosity was piqued. Fancy cars didn’t often venture this far; the muddy excuse for a road leading to the slum colony saw occasional auto rickshaws and maybe a tempo or two. The neighbor almost dragged Shama to the main road and there she recognized the car and the driver as Ashima’s. What they were doing here so late she could not guess. Maybe something had gone missing from the house and they had come to accuse her was her first reaction but then she put the uncharitable thought about her employer away and approached the car. The driver saw her coming and knocked on the door, which opened, and Ashima and Ishaan stepped out and in her arms wrapped in her soft silk sari was her son. Shama ran to her afraid that something had happened to her little boy, that he was injured or worse dead. But Ashima hushed her with her finger, “ He’s just fallen asleep after crying for you,” and handed the sleeping bundle into the waiting arms of his mother. Shama was hysterical with relief and would not stop kissing the little boys face at which point he woke up and brushing her aside said, “ I want to go to bed? I’m tired”.
Putting him to bed, Shama heard the entire story from the driver who had accompanied her to the house. Ashima had driven home herself after making sure the family was all right. Apparently Suraj had landed up outside Ishaan’s school, a good hours walk from the slum. God knows where he had walked all afternoon and how many traffic clogged roads he had crossed. At closing time when Ishaan came out he saw him outside the crushed ice-lolly stall, whose owner was shooing him away. Ishaan recognized him from occasional Sundays when he accompanied his mother to work. He went to him and telling him the ice-lolly would give him a cold bought him candy floss instead and somehow managed to persuade the school bus driver that he was a friend he needed to take home. Reaching home he called his mother at work who tried unsuccessfully to reach Shama all evening. She hurried home, fed both kids who were quietly playing with Ishaan’s cars and trains and then put them in the car and brought Shama’s son to her.
The driver left and Shama asked him to tell their employer she’d be back at work next day. She would have to thank Ashima herself and she could not think how she would ever repay the debt. She looked at her sleeping son who stirred in his sleep and seeing her he said’ “ Where’s my friend Ishaan? Can he come stay with us?”
Samina Motlekar is a writer based in Bombay. She has just finished being part of the Summer Writers Colony at The New School, New York and is working on a collection of short stories.
