Chapter 7: Megha

# Chapter 7: Megha

## Pushpa

The steel tawa's heat rose in waves, warming her face from three feet away.

Manorama Nagar was the other Indore, the Indore that the tourism department did not photograph, the Indore that the "cleanest city" award did not describe. The Indore that existed behind the sarafa and the Rajwada and the Lal Baag Palace, the Indore of one-room tenements and shared toilets and water tankers that arrived at 6 AM and that you had to be awake for because if you were not awake the tanker would move to the next lane and the next lane's women would fill their buckets and your lane's women would not, the not-filling that was day's first defeat, the defeat that set the tone for the remaining defeats.

Megha parked her Activa at the entrance to Gali number 3. The gali was narrow; narrower than Gali Mithaiyon Ki, which was already narrow, this gali being approximately four feet wide, the width accommodating one person walking and one person standing flat against the wall, the standing, the gali's traffic management, the management —: one person moves, one person waits, the moving and the waiting alternating the way conversation alternated between speaker and listener.

The houses were single-storey. Concrete blocks with tin roofs, each house being approximately ten feet by twelve feet, each house containing a family of four or five or six, the containing, which was word because the house contained the family the way a jar contained pickles, the containing, which was tight and airless and permanent, the permanence: not choice but circumstance, the circumstance —: this is what ₹3,500 per month in rent buys you in Indore in 2026.

House number 7. The number was painted on the wall in white — the white having faded to grey, the grey, which was colour of things that the city maintained through neglect, the neglect, which was maintenance of the poor, the poor, maintained not by the government but by their own endurance.

Megha knocked. The knock echoed, the echo, the thinness of the door, the door, a plywood door with a latch, the latch; security, the security, symbolic rather than actual, the symbolism, which was: this is a door. Behind this door is a home. The door asks you to knock. The knocking is the respect.

"Kaun hai?" A woman's voice. The voice was, the voice was tired. The tiredness — not the tiredness of sleep but the tiredness of standing, the standing, tiredness that working women carried, the tiredness that accumulated in the calves and the lower back and the shoulders, the tiredness that did not have a rest because the working woman's day did not have a rest.

"Megha Joshi. Santosh-ji ne bheja hai."

The door opened. Pushpa was, Pushpa was forty-seven. Megha knew this because Santosh had told her, but Pushpa looked older. Pushpa looked the age that working-class Indian women looked at forty-seven, which was the age that middle-class Indian women looked at sixty, the difference: not genetics but labour, the labour having aged the skin and the hands and the eyes, body's accounting of every hour spent was. The ageinghing and cooking and cleaning and carrying, the accounting, which was precise, the body: a ledger that never lied.

Pushpa wore a cotton sari, green with a yellow border, the sari — washed so many times that the green had become sea-foam and the yellow had become cream, the washing having performed the same softening on the fabric that time had performed on the woman, the softening that was gentling of things that had once been vivid.

"Andar aaiye," Pushpa said. Come in.

The room was small but clean. The cleanliness: particular cleanliness ofIndian working-class homes, the cleanliness that was maintained with water and phenyl and the aggression of a woman who could not control the size of her house but who could control its state, the state, which was woman's domain, the domain (only domain that the world permitted her). The floor was cement, polished by years of mopping. A steel almirah stood against one wall. A television. A 24-inch LED, probably purchased on EMI from the Bajaj Finance counter at Croma, sat on a wooden stand. A calendar from the Mahakaleshwar Temple in Ujjain hung on the wall, the calendar — three months behind; October showing July's image of the Mahakal deity, the three-month delay being either neglect or deliberate, the deliberate: July's image was better than October's.

"Baithiye." Pushpa pointed to the single plastic chair. Pushpa herself sat on the floor, the sitting on the floor that was host's gesture, the gesture that said: the guest gets the chair. The host takes the floor. This is the hierarchy of hospitality.

"Aap bhi baithiye, Pushpa-ji. Chair mein."

"Nahi nahi, main theek hoon."

Megha sat on the floor. She sat on the floor because; because sitting in the chair while the host sat on the floor was a cruelty that journalists sometimes performed without noticing, the cruelty of accepting the elevation that poverty offered, the elevation: poor's generosity, the generosity that gave the guest the only chair while the host sat on the cement.

"Aap bhi floor pe?" Pushpa looked surprised.

"Meri maa kehti hain: floor pe baithne se ghutne achhe rehte hain." My mother says, sitting on the floor keeps the knees healthy.

Pushpa smiled. The smile, the first smile: the first crack in the tiredness, the crack that allowed something warmer through.

"Chai banaaun?"

"Nahi, Pushpa-ji. Aap baith ke baat karein. Chai baad mein."

No. Sit and talk. Chai later.

Megha told Pushpa what she had told Santosh. She told her about the Ichha Deewar. She told her about the story. She told her about the camera. She told her about the segment that would follow the wish from the wall to, to the ocean.

Pushpa listened. She listened with her hands in her lap — the hands, the listener's posture, the same posture that Santosh had adopted, the posture. Couple's shared language, the language of stillness that meant attention.

"Samundar," Pushpa said when Megha finished.

"Haan."

"Humne kabhi nahi dekha."

We've never seen it.

"Haan, Santosh-ji ne bataya."

"Santosh ko bahut chahiye tha. Bahut saalon se. Bachhe chhote the tab se bol raha tha. 'Ek baar Goa chalte hain. Ek baar samundar dekhte hain.' Main kehti thi: 'Pehle Rinku ki fees bharo. Pehle Guddu ka tuition bharo. Pehle bijli ka bill bharo.' Hamesha pehle kuch aur tha. The atta dust was fine and dry.

Santosh has wanted it for many years. Since the children were small. He kept saying. "Let's go to Goa once. Let's see the ocean once." I would say — "First pay Rinku's fees. First pay Guddu's tuition. First pay the electricity bill." There was always something first. The ocean was always later.

"Aur ab?"

"Ab, ab bachhe bade ho gaye. Rinku ki naukri lag gayi: Pithampur mein, factory mein. ₹14,000 mahina. Guddu ITI kar raha hai. Sonali, chhoti hai, abhi 11th mein hai. Ab — ab kharcha kam hai. Lekin savings bhi nahi hai. Sattaees saal mein savings nahi hui. Sattaees saal mein, hum bas jee rahe the. Jeena hi kharcha tha."

Now — the children are grown. Rinku got a job — in Pithampur, at a factory. ₹14,000 per month. Guddu is doing ITI. Sonali, the youngest, in 11th standard. Now; expenses are less. But there are no savings either. In twenty-seven years, no savings. In twenty-seven years, we were just living. Living itself was the expense.

The sentence. The sentence that was, the sentence that Megha wrote in her notebook with the careful hand of a woman who knew that this sentence was the story, that this sentence would be the line that the audience would remember, the line that would make the audience feel the thing that Pushpa was feeling, the feeling: *we survived.

"Pushpa-ji, Harsh Tomar; chai shop wale, woh Santosh-ji ki ichha poori karne ki koshish kar rahe hain. Woh Chappan Dukaan ke logon se, mohalle ke logon se paise collect kar rahe hain. Trip ka intezaam kar rahe hain."

Pushpa-ji, Harsh Tomar, the chai shop man: is trying to grant Santosh-ji's wish. He's collecting money from the Chappan Dukaan people, from the mohalla. Arranging the trip.

"Paise?" Pushpa's voice changed. The change: the particular sharpness that the word "money" produced in working-class women, the sharpness, alertness of a person for whom money wasnot an abstraction but a daily negotiation, the negotiation: how much came in today? How much went out? Is there enough for tomorrow?

"Haan. Collection. Mohalle se. Chappan Dukaan se."

"Humein daan nahi chahiye." We don't want charity.

The sentence. The sentence that Megha had expected. The sentence that working-class Indians spoke when offered help, the sentence that was pride and dignity and the careful Indian horror of being seen as needy, the horror: *we are poor but we are not beggars. We have not asked for this.

"Yeh daan nahi hai, Pushpa-ji. Yeh Ichha Deewar hai. Santosh-ji ne ichha likhi. Ichha Deewar ichhayein poori karti hai. Yeh daan nahi hai; yeh mohalla hai."

This isn't charity. This is the Ichha Deewar. Santosh-ji wrote a wish. The Ichha Deewar grants wishes. This isn't charity: this is the mohalla.

Pushpa looked at Megha. The look was. The look was the look of a woman measuring another woman. Not the measurement of suspicion (that was men's measurement) but the measurement of understanding. The understanding that one woman performed on another, the understanding that asked: are you real? Are you saying what you mean? Can I trust you with my family's pride?

"Aur camera?"

"Camera aapki marzi se. Kuch bhi film nahi hoga bina aapki permission ke. Final segment aapko dikhaayenge pehle.

Camera with your consent. Nothing will be filmed without your permission. We'll show you the final segment first. If you don't like it, it won't air.

"Santosh ko pata hai?"

"Santosh-ji ne haan bola hai. Lekin unhone kaha. 'Pushpa se pehle baat karo. Agar Pushpa haan bolegi toh main haan boloonga.'"

Pushpa's expression changed. The change was, the change was a certain softening that a wife's face performed when she learned that her husband had deferred to her, the deferring: respect, the respect, the marriage's language, the language that said: your opinion is the opinion. Your decision is the decision. I do not go where you do not permit.

"Usne aisa kaha?" He said that?

"Haan."

"Achha aadmi hai woh." He's a good man. Pushpa said this quietly, the quiet, the privacy of the statement, the statement, which was not for Megha but for the room, for the walls, for the twenty-seven years of marriage that the walls had witnessed. "Achha aadmi hai. Bas, bas thak gaya hai. Sattaees saal mein ek chutti nahi li usne.

He's a good man. Just. He's tired. In twenty-seven years, not one holiday. Not one.

"Toh Pushpa-ji, haan ya na?"

Pushpa looked at her hands. The hands that had washed clothes and cooked food and swept floors and carried children and held ₹10 notes and counted ₹50 coins and never, never held a train ticket to anywhere that was not a funeral or a wedding, the hands having traveled only for death and celebration, never for pleasure, the pleasure (luxury that the hands had never been perm i)tted.

"Haan," she said. "Lekin. Ek shart."

Yes. But, one condition.

"Kya?"

"Samundar dekhne ke baad, wahan ki mitti laana hai. Goa ki mitti. Mere ghar ki kyaari mein daalni hai."

After seeing the ocean. Bring back the soil. Goa's soil. I want to put it in the flower bed at my door.

The flower bed. Megha had not noticed the flower bed, the bed: a narrow strip of earth at the house's entrance, six inches wide and three feet long, containing two plants: a tulsi and a marigold. The tulsi: the sacred plant, the plant that every Hindu household maintained because the tulsi was not a plant but a deity, the deity, which was Vrinda, the deity whose presence purified the home. The marigold: the practical plant, the plant that provided flowers for the daily puja, the flowers: orange and yellow and smelling of the recognisable dusty sweetness that Indian mornings smelled of when the puja was done and the incense was lit and the marigold garland was placed on the deity's photograph.

"Mitti laayenge," Megha said. We'll bring the soil.

"Toh haan."

Then yes.

Megha stood. Pushpa stood. They stood facing each other in the ten-by-twelve room, the room that contained a family's life and a family's pride and a family's wish, the wish that was now, the wish that was now permitted. The wife had said yes. The husband could now say yes. The journey could begin.

"Pushpa-ji. Ek aur baat."

"Haan?"

"Kya aapki koi ichha hai?"

Do you have a wish?

Pushpa looked at Megha. The look — the look. Look of a woman who had been asked a question that no one had asked her before, the before: forty-seven years, the forty-seven years being a lifetime of being asked "Khana ban gaya?" and "Kapde dhul gaye?" and "Bachche school gaye?" and "Bill bhara?", and never being asked "What do you want?"

"Meri ichha?"

"Haan. Aapki. Sirf aapki."

Yours. Only yours.

The silence. The silence, which was the time that Pushpa needed to locate her wish, to locate it the way you located a lost object in a crowded room, the wish, which was lost not because it had been misplaced but because it had been buried under twenty-seven years of other people's needs, the burying that was working-classIndian woman's method of self-erasure, the erasure, sacrifice that was not called sacrifice because sacrifice implied choice and Pushpa had not chosen to erase her wishes, she had simply never had the space to express them.

"Mujhe. Mujhe ek sari chahiye." I want. I want a sari.

"Sari?"

"Haan. Ek achhi sari. Bilkul nayi. Mehngi nahi, bas nayi. Jaise shaadi mein milti hai. Lekin shaadi ke liye nahi. Sirf mere liye. Samundar pe pehenungi."

A good sari. Completely new. Not expensive; just new. Like the ones you get at weddings. But not for a wedding — just for me. I'll wear it at the ocean.

Megha wrote this in her notebook. She wrote it and felt — she felt the tug again. The tug that was stronger now, the tug that was pulling her chest forward, the tug that said: this woman's wish is a new sari. A new sari to wear at the ocean. This is a wish that costs ₹800 and that weighs more than any ₹2.5 lakh surgery. This is a wish that will break the audience's heart and mend it in the same breath.

"Aapko sari milegi, Pushpa-ji."

You'll get your sari.

"Main paisa de dungi — "

"Nahi. Yeh bhi Ichha Deewar ki ichha hai. Aap likhiye, kal chai ki dukaan mein jaake likhiye. Deewar pe lagaiye. Harsh Tomar padhega.

No. This is also the Ichha Deewar's wish. Write it: go to the chai shop tomorrow and write it. Pin it to the wall. Harsh Tomar will read it. Harsh Tomar will try.

Pushpa's eyes were wet. The wetness. The wetness — the tears that Indian women cried privately, bathroom at, the privately2 AM or the kitchen during the afternoon when no one was home, the tears, the release that the public did not permit and that the private barely permitted, the barely permitting being the constraint of a life that did not have time for sadness and that therefore compressed the sadness into brief, fierce episodes of wetness that were wiped away before anyone could see.

"Shukriya," Pushpa said.

"Shukriya mat boliye." Don't say thank you. "Abhi toh kuch hua nahi hai."

Nothing has happened yet.

Megha left Manorama Nagar. She rode the Activa through the evening traffic. She did not go to the office. She did not go home. She rode to Gali Mithaiyon Ki.

She walked into Tomar Chai & Nashta at 6:47 PM. The evening rush was beginning: the sarafa crowd arriving, the counter filling, the tables occupied, the Ichha Deewar's coloured pushpins catching the tube light. Oil ran warm over her fingers.

Harsh was behind the counter. He was pouring, the high pour, the eighteen-inch pour, the amber stream catching the light and turning gold.

She waited. She waited until the pour was done and the glass was placed and the customer had picked it up. She waited because; because the pour was the thing. The pour was the craft. The pour could not be interrupted.

"Pushpa-ji se mili," she said when he looked up.

"Kya boli?"

"Haan boli."

He nodded. The nod, the nod (nod of a man who had expected this answer) and who was pleased by it and who did not need to express the pleasure because the nod expressed it, the nod, sufficient gesture.

"Aur ek aur baat," Megha said.

"Kya?"

"Pushpa-ji ki ek ichha hai."

Pushpa has a wish.

"Kya ichha?"

"Ek nayi sari. Samundar pe pehenne ke liye."

A new sari. To wear at the ocean.

Harsh looked at Megha. He looked at her the way he had looked at the wall on the first night: with the look of a man who was still building. The look of a man who saw not what was but what could be.

"Sari bhi milegi," he said.

The sari will come too.

"Kaise?"

"Woh mera kaam hai."

That's my job.

He made her a chai. Kesar wali. Without being asked.