Desi Baby

Anklets

The sun started to set on Mumbai's woven roads. The cracks on the concrete buildings started to show visibly. I wonder when they will start to crumble, like lies the lies this city is made up of. I wrapped the kaki sari around me. My blouse held by a dozen safety pins. I was getting thinner day by day. Who's knows maybe if I become thin enough I can join Victoria's secret as a model. I laughed at that thought. Imagine Baba and Mumas faces. As if I had not shamed them enough.

Who can I blame? Was it not I who decided to run away from Baba and Amma. Sometimes I imagine going back to the land of palm trees and coconuts to live with them as their little daughter again. In another life, maybe I will, but not this. The black purdah and the sick henna was deprived me of life all these years. I cannot do that anymore. I want to breathe the air you do and see that kinds thing you do without any restrictions.

I glanced at the clock. 6:00. I finish wrapping the sari, added a bindi to my head, grabbed the umbrella and bolted out the door. I am late.

Mr. Mutherji was kind enough to give a job as security in front of the museum. Even though it meant sacrificing normal sleep and possibly getting into unhealthy fights with drunkards, the job gave me food to fill my stomach and clothes to cover. I stealthily walked alongside the bustling roads the back part of my sari whipping in the wind. Roads side vendors eager to finish up their sales and young girls and boys returning home form classes filled the road. Above my head, thousands of crows cawing, clutching pieces of thrown away food on their way back to their offspring. It was total chaos. But it made me feel that I was actually there. Present.

Aap kaha hai beti? Kyu late kareja? 

I heard as I climbed up the stairs of Mumbai's most prized museum. I enter a small office like area, especially for securities.

Babuji the security who works the shift before me. He's a stubborn yet a fatherly man. He worries me working late at night and as asked me on many occasions when I would like to switch shifts with him? But I have never agreed yet. Who am I to deprive of the only time he has with his children. Poor kids, their mother had passed away during the childbirth of his second daughter. She is 5 years old now. The oldest being 7. Babuji used to be a conman of the underworld don but with the birth of his daughters and his late wife's passing. I have to say day- life captures realities in man at odd times. even in their 04s. Babuji sighs huffs and grunts. He grabs his umbrella, tiffin box and disappears out the door.

I settle in the rough chair, turn on the night lights, I keep an eye out on the street ahead and the entrance. My mind drifts. I am once again a little girl of twelve.