Shivam and I looked out of our house. Real estate had grappled every place but ours. We never put in any unneeded money towards building our home, but we never second-guesses before spending on our food. Food was like a ritual for us.
On one such sunny day, we went outside our house, stood and saw all the new masonry being put in place, and each building set in red bricks almost four times taller than ours.
Then we heard a commotion in one of those buildings. Apparently no one has has running water in one of such houses. Then a wailing came from another house; the dishes of neither of the 20 families residing there had been washed.
We didn’t know if the situation around us was true or not, so Shivam brought a dirty plate from our own house and tried to ask one of the maids to do it. It just has sauce on it, it wasn’t very dirty. Could have been rinsed off by a hose and it would have looked as good as new. But the maid flat out refused. On receiving a bit of a push, she became uncontainable. She started lashing out at Shivam, throwing the dirty plate at Shivam like a frisbee in the air, but directed towards him. He took a step back and said with a stronger voice, “It’s fine! There are a lot of people who would want to do this and get paid for it. It was your job though!”
Following this, he went to try his luck. An hour elapses. He came back, visibly sweating, with heavy to no breathing, soaked undershirt and dishevelled hair, “I went to 30 other maids. No one would do the dishes! I don’t know why everyone is furious. What are they getting paid for?”
Hearing this, the residents of the house agreed in unison. You could hear a faint roar for 3 seconds. The woman near us started to nod her head, looking at us, as if she went through the same ordeal as Shivam. Then I saw this as a job opportunity and asked if I could do their dishes.
One of the women urged me to come inside and decompress for a while, considering the current maid strikes, the cause of which still remain unknown. The women gathered around on one particular woman’s sofa, and all looked at me, especially my mouth, as if in anticipation of something I’d say. And I did have a lot to say, mainly, to ask of them.
Outside their houses, i overheard them complaining about how every woman couldn’t handle this amount of workload, going to an office for their dead-end job, taking care of their in-laws, spouse and children. Where they saw no respite, I saw a golden opportunity.
I saw their plight and decided it was time to make money. As they kept talking about how little time they have left for recreation, I jumped/barged into their conversation and asked, “How much time do you spend in the office really? Surely, you’ll have some time left over for the dishes at least!” This was a conversation starter I was waiting to unleash onto them as soon as I saw their dreary faces, and I had no remorse whatsoever for my actions. At least I could use their anger to get the ball rolling in my court, in my favour. As soon as they heard the grave assumption drop from my mouth, they raged. I baited and won. The woman closest to me now roughed her gaze up, and moved it upwards from my mouth to now spotlighting my eyes and eyes only. “We get back home when it’s dark as a lake. And it’s always so cold! How do you expect us to give our twelve hours to the company, and also do the dishes? Anyone could do the dishes.”
One woman cried not long after, “Twelve hours! I work in the office, and also when I’m back. Make it fifteen!”
The one way back on the sofa regurgitated the same, “I’m from the city of Bangalore where the traffic barely moves when I get out of the office in the evening. Make it twenty, that is at least.” People spoke up as if it were a competition for who suffered the most pain. I bet they completely forgot about the maid situation. No, that can’t be good for me. Let’s strike my proposition while their anger rod is still hot.
I chimed in, to try and say I understood, “Have you worked from NCR? The traffic is so bad, you can barely cross the street!” The women at once, in unison, turned their faces towards me, and put me in the interrogation chair, “Huh. How long have you worked there?” “And then, what is your business here?” “Also, I have never seen you in this apartment even once! Who are you?”
No interval. Boom! Just question, after question, and question. I said meekly, “I am from the building next to this! Would you like me to wash your dishes for you? I could manage if each one had 10-20 in a pile, but I guess not more than that” and smiled like a deer out of danger.
They stared blankly. They didn’t know what to reply. One of them said, “Um, you’re a working woman, so I don’t think so. You’re messing with us. You won’t actually, DO the dishes? Can’t you just get the maid to do it? She gets paid a lot for it!”
Curious, I ask, “How much?” One woman whispered the figure into my ears, as if it were a top-level government secret and to not jinx them maid gods. I stood in disbelief. It became clear to me why the maids would team up, and quit their job. What they were getting paid was lunch money to ruin their precious hands. Now I understand why they would whisper the amount to me. The figure was just atrocious, and they knew it. That explains why one of the maids got so pissed at Shivam, she started spraying here dishwasher liquid at him like a manic would to keep pests off her. We were the real pests of the society.
Mommy opens the closet door, unpacks the old woollen clothing from when Shivam was still a kid, and asks Shivam if he needs any full length shirts. He frowns, becomes instantly grumpy as if awoke from a deep sleep, and says, “No!”
I watch it unfold as a bystander every time the ordeal takes place. I could never get in between mom and son, and make things worse than they already are.
In the crowd of commotion, Shivam gets approached by a potential investor. But this was different. She wanted him to invest in her company. To Shivam, it didn’t sound promising, but he thought of supporting small companies in these trying times, and he agreeably said his yes.
Her name was Aishwarya. She visibly grinned. She set out to draft the agreement on paper, assuring Shivam, “I’ll be back in a while, you get into your best suit!” She left her assistant in our company, and bolted out of there in glee.
Shivam looked at me, as if in confusion. But I smiled back. You don’t get to do good on most of the days of your life. But today might be the day he changes the fate of a failing company.
Something was sketchy. It just felt off. On further recall, questions poured in to the dam of my mind.
What was it that her company did? Why would she pick out a stranger from the crowd to invest in her company? Where did she go? Why aren’t her papers drafted in legal already?
I allayed my fears to Shivam. He’s pensive and a little shaken himself, but calms me with the words, “It might be nothing. We can give her a chance, can’t we? After all, they’ll need your signature on it too. You’re part stakeholder!”
I said, “You’re right. Maybe it’s really nothing. I’ll go back to what I was doing. You take care. Oh, might I pick out a good suit for your signing from the shop I see on the opposite?”
“You may, don’t ask me”, he laughed and stretched half of all his face muscles out. He was in a good mood. After a long time. I didn’t want to take it away from him. But I was still sceptical of this small business Aishwarya. So I kept my distance, but kept an eye. Shivam went off to get shaved and groomed for the big day.
I picked out a black corduroy with chinos for his event. Something he could wear today, something he could wear later. Chinos will never go out of fashion. In my head, that’s not a conjecture, but a fact.
I paid and left with the freshly packed suit in my arms. After stepping out into the road from the air con of the shop, I heard a familiar voice. Aishwarya was right outside the shop. Was she here to meet, me? But why? And how would she know where I was? Maybe Shivam needed something and sent her after.
She comes up to me in haste and exclaims, “There you are! I have prepared all the papers. I forgot to tell you, I have a flight in the next 3 hours, so I’ll be leaving for the airport. We don’t have much time to go to Shivam, so why don’t you sign this temporarily and we’ll connect as soon as I’m back? I have read whatever the advocate typed out so that there’s no mistake, and so that you don’t waste any time reading it.”
I smelled fish. I felt urgency, fear and cold sweat all hit me at once. How could someone forget they have a flight on the same day? Is she not telling us? Ugh, maybe I’m reading too much into the situation as Shivam said. There’s a lot that happened today. Maybe all I need is a breather.
During my train of thoughts set on by her urgency, she interrupted, “Come on! It’s just a signature. Not too hard. Make it and we’ll leave. I talked to Shivam, he is really pumped about it!”
And then it clicked. Shivam would never tell someone else to relay a piece of information for me. We both had our days where we laughed about how information changes its contents when it gets passed down by the human chain filter, basically people making up stuff and adding to the original message like Chinese whispers.
He would not have relayed his message via a stranger we met today, let alone anyone else; he would have told me in confidence.
I have joked all these years about how, even if a hundred scams hit him at once, he’ll still be the most cybernetically and financially secure guy standing on the face of Earth. He’d never be for me not reading the agreement in detail, after we took it home, and put it under the magnifying glass of two pairs of scorching eyes. Or is he like an old guy now?
“Where are you lost? Ey, daydreamer!”, she snaps her fingers at me rapidly and snaps me out of my blank stare, which I’ve probably been giving her for a while now, while I was marinating my thoughts.
I have made my decision. A rational one. The assistant must have overheard us talking about me being the significant stakeholder, and them realising the need of my signature on it. I sifted through the pages quickly, and looked down at the last page of the agreement. There was no signature of Shivam. Why would he want me to sign something he hasn’t yet? Wait, did he even see it? Or read it? Or, is he still waiting for Aishwarya like I was?
Shivam must be in danger. He doesn’t know what they’re cooking. He must have gone to the bank to withdraw money, that damn cash lover. He is a true believer in using cold, hard cash, or the transaction never happened. I kinda see the point in that now. There’s no feeling better than touching that raw, minted money straight out of the ATM, counting each denomination over again, handing it over to the person owed, and actually feeling the guy wrenching emptiness of the money leaving you. Some people can get more emotionally attached to this stuff than to a dog, it’s true.
I have to warn him. In the very least, I’ll have to look if he is in danger really or not. Either way, if I check out what jig is up, I’ll be alleviating my fears. He went to groom himself, and it’s been approximately 20 minutes, so he must be back by now.
I took the papers from Aishwarya’s hand, grinning back, and revealing, “I don’t have a pen. I’ll go in the shade there, lend a pen from some soul, sign it and be right back!” I lied through my teeth, and maybe, for the first time, I didn’t get caught in the act. I always, always carried a pen. The day you see me without one? Sad news. They have successfully cloned me and set the clone free with my identity. I’m the one who’d rather wear a polo shirt with a massive ink spillage right on the pocket, than never having a pen. I have even gone as far to wear a blue shirt which almost matches the ink bleed and makes me look ready for my interviews. Do not trust me without one. I’m happy I crossed when the traffic signal was about to turn red for the pedestrians; it was plain luck, looking back. But this way, they got caught up in incoming traffic and couldn’t chase after me till it was green again.
I reached our meeting point. That’s where he was last, and said he’ll be back after grooming. I don’t see him. Could be already been have taken away by Aishwarya and her goons? No way. There’s no sign of Shivam. It’s like he was never here.
I spot Aishwarya crossing the street with her assistant, under muffled breaths, reaching me. Visibly angry, she shouted, “Did you sign it yet? Oh wait, you mustn’t have found your pen, how will you sign anything? If it helps, here it is”, and without hesitation, she takes out the blue pen nestled in the blue breast pocket of my shirt. I stood baffled, without an answer. The pen. It had no golden or silver rims sticking out in the lid. You couldn’t see it there unless you really looked, or really knew where it should be. I felt a sucker punch to the gut. It was the latter. It had to be.
Just then, an auto arrived where the three of us were, and halted. I could see Shivam, sitting in the middle back seat. He had all of his beard and moustache gone. He was all for good causes, but he really didn’t know what No Shave November was, so he wasn’t all for keeping his hair and turning into Asian Santa with black hair. He did look different, a totally different person from what he was 20 minutes ago. So shaved, you couldn’t tell it was him unless you were family.
There he was, my poor boy! He kept caressing his stubble, and his now-nonexistent beard. He tried looking in the rear view mirror of the auto, and his face told the story, he didn’t like what he saw. His bare face. It was all phantom beard.
Judging from the indifference in Aishwarya and her assistant, and seeing how they looked at everyone in the auto and kept tapping their feet in restlessness, and looking at their wrist watches twenty times a minute in an attempt to somehow make time run faster for just them, I smiled to myself. They didn’t recognise him. They totally saw his face while he was paying the auto driver. They would have pounced on him by now to get his signature, had they recognised, or even seen a semblance of who he is. He was a kind man. He has had days where I saw him without a bed to sleep on, but he still cared about others sleeping comfortably. He couldn’t hurt a fly, but would kill a dozen mosquitoes if even one of them but me. I couldn’t let him get ruined. I have to find a way to warn him.
Damn right he was in danger. The sharks have smelled his money, and wanted to rob him of it all. So they jumped onto the boat, even if it could get them killed. And there’s nothing humans can’t get rid of, even the biggest sharks in the bloody ocean. And to defeat the sharks, I really have to think on my feet right now.
My eyes met Shivam’s. He smiled in apprehension. He saw me tightly holding the suit wrapped in plastic in my arms, and his smile widened in playfulness. Is Aishwarya seeing us? I hope not. This is my chance to shoot the only shot I have got.
Before he could get off the auto, I looked at him, almost trying to signal a distress call. He scrunched his eyebrows and temples, and returned a similar facial expression, as if to ask, “What’s going on? Is everything alright?” I pursed my lips as hard as humanely possible, and nodded my head slightly from side to side, being meticulous with Aishwarya not catching wind of our secret communication. He raised his eyebrows slightly. In our language this means, “Oh I see. Something IS wrong. What’s up?”
This is my chance. I took it.
I held my cap, lifted it off my head by like a degree or two, and then pointed to my shirt pocket, and drew a badge in the air circling around my pocket. Without the context of the cap, someone might think I’m talking about a boob, or an areola even. I really clasped my metaphorical palms together and hoped he’ll get my message. I meant by the cap and the circling, a police officer. Obviously. They are the only profession who have both a cap AND their badge.
It couldn’t be anyone else. See, doctors have a scrub, but no cap or badge. I would have probably denoted them via a syringe, and mimicked a person pushing a syringe action by putting my thumb in between and through the middle finger and the index finger. Doctors only wear something on their head mostly if they are surgeons, and then it’s not a cap, but a head gear and a full PPE kit. An onsite building engineer would have a cap, but no badge. Also the cap would be yellow and a hard hat, which I didn’t wear. I mean, the signal could have been better, but I had no time to sit and refine my message.
I think I saw his jaws drop a little. He looked at me in disbelief. It took him like three seconds. But he got it. The look on his face solidified. His cheeks grew more confident. He nodded up and down, very slightly, and showed me a motion with his fingers. He opened up his left palm, and drew an almost square spiral onto it with his right index finger. He knew this neighborhood well, and was probably hinting at where the police station is. Translating his square, i broke it down as, “Walk straight, then take one right around the block, then walk to immediately another right, and go into the lane to take yet another right”.
He knew. He understood me right away! I was ecstatic, but had no time to celebrate. This was just not the time. I had my work cut out for me. I don’t know for sure if he really got the heat of the situation, if he really understands that I’m asking for the police to warn him of his imminent danger once he does step out of the auto, and if he is giving me the correct direction to the police station. I had no option but to follow his message to the T and find out for myself. Soon, he signalled by tapping his imaginary watch with his right index finger twice, and looking down at it. He never liked wearing watches. But he knew one thing, I was wasting time thinking, and time was running out.
We just had a full blown conversation with each other without saying a single word or uttering a single sound. All in the span of like a total of 10 seconds. I felt like I was on top of the world. I was convinced that we were better communicators than the best public speakers. Than birds. Our relationship must have reached peak understanding levels. Bravo.
I tell you, if you can read people, you can win every fucking battle in your life. Your problems are just other people inconveniencing you.
I left the papers with Aishwarya, got myself excused, and ran without saying a word. I followed the directions and took three right turns, and tried to find the police station. I was covered in cold sweat. Did it not exist here? Did I misunderstand Shivam’s message? If not pointing me to a station, what else could he be hinting at?
Shortly I saw officers walking out in a group of five. They were going about their day, three of them looking grim and perfectly serious, while the other two catching a break while sipping from the same tender coconut on this sunny day. Before they could have sipped whatever little water the coconut had to offer and throw it away, I was stood in front of their face, in a proximity level only colleagues night entertain.
“What’s the matter?”, one of them asked. You could see half of his face tanned slightly more than the other half, it meant he sat on the side of the police vehicle, and probably couldn’t care more about skincare than catching thieves left and right. He would listen. So I told him what I knew. He nodded and said, “Is she there still? Hurry, we have no time to waste!” I got a ride back to the miscreants, it was my first time riding in a police vehicle, and for all the good reasons.
As soon as we arrived and the police officers got down, a smirk instantly got wiped off Aishwarya’s face. I looked at the paper lying in front of her. Shivam hasn’t signed it yet. He did understand me back then.
“But what about my flight? Will you reimburse me and my friend here for that? It’s very important that I arrive!”
“Enough talk from you. We’ll cancel your flight. You aren’t going anywhere. You have to come to the station with us.”
Turning to us, one of the officers said, “Thank you for reporting. We’ve been in the lookout for this gang for a long time. We’ll take it from here.”
They dragged her out, onto the back of their vehicle, and asked her, “Also, tell us about this other lady here. She might be working with you. In what capacity? Ohh you’ll not answer? Smart. Take her in for questioning as well.”
Days later, we got an email from the cops. Turns out, the women have been scamming kind people for a year now. They get leads from “trusted” charities, if you can call them that. Then they gather more information about the person in question and ask for an investment in their fake company. So far, it has worked out well for them and they were sitting on a bed of literal dollars bills back in their house, which was also funded by the women in the other building.
How they got more info, you ask? You have to give the credit to the insider maids for this one. There’s nothing they don’t know about you. And they didn’t even have to try hard. All they had to do was listen to you rant about your home, about your spouse, in-laws and finances, while they washed the dishes, and when they were done extracting the information, they left in a frenzy about how they weren’t paid enough and went on strikes. It was never about the workload or the discrimination. They were well aware, and still took on work on each one of those thirty houses. They were good scammers. But mostly, they were good listeners. All the uprising was a facade, so that you never question their loyalty.