Image: Louis Hansel, Unsplash
She squatted on the damp earth, the folds of her sari spread out between her knees like a net, catching stray sand and grass as she deftly plucked weeds from the soil. The dirt formed thin crescents under her fingernails and glossy beads dotted her chocolate forehead. It was in the middle of the afternoon on a muggy June day. Avanti had mastered the skill of watching people without them knowing. Her mistress was hosting a sale again in the garage. This was the second day. She had been instructed to move boxes, sweep and wash the floors, and dust the cobwebs over the past few days. Most of the items had been sold — there were only a few left. The mistress had arranged smooth, long wooden tables in a row that morning, placing items delicately on the table. She looked tired and bent, like a woman who was carrying an invisible load. Probably from staring at and typing on that contraption on her table, Avanti deduced. She had complained of back problems. Avanti had stood by her bedside, massaging expensive oils, kneading her back with her calloused, spindly fingers. Her rubbery, brown hands felt invasive against her mistress’ hairless, talcum powder coloured skin. “Ah yes, there, Avanti. Right there,” her mistress would exclaim breathlessly, her face lost between two fluffy white, satin pillows. Avanti was pleased when she touched upon the right spot. Her hands were her most prized possession — they were her breadwinner. Her village palm-reader had told her this years ago. With a mouth full of red paan and a head full of wisdom, she spoke of Avanti’s future. “Your hands are strong,” she said. “You’ve worked them well, weaving baskets, fetching water from the well.” She paused to spit in the sand, releasing it with the noise of a pistol, leaving a bleeding lump of coagulated saliva and paan. She drew closer to Avanti’s face. Her teeth stained with beeda and her eyes dancing mischievously, she seemed like a cannibal. “But your mind is weak.” Avanti still felt her heart sink like a steel bucket down the murky village well.
“I want to be a teacher,” she had mumbled incoherently. “I..like..to read….”
The palm-reader spat decisively, then threw her head back and cackled loudly, her mouth red like that of a blood-sucking vampire.
“Dreams. Hah. Not for us, my dear. That is a luxury for the rich.” she pressed a pointed finger on Avanti’s chest, like a stab to the heart, “Use your hands, do some work. Make some money.” She retracted her finger and wrapped another betel leaf with her brown fingers, crinkled like dates. “Then you dream,” she said, stuffing the whole thing into her mouth and chewing gratingly.
Avanti, sitting under the harsh sunshine, looked at her own hands that were stained with years of work and this filthy thing she called fate. She wiped her forehead as she recollected these words, leaving three faint streaks of wet mud on her skin. She stood up and dusted her sari off before she waddled to the garage door, where her mistress stood in a starch white salwar kameez. She beckoned to Avanti eagerly,
“Ah, Avanti, wipe these two items,” she instructed, immediately turning away to fish more items out of a cardboard box, her bouncy coiffed hair swishing with enthusiasm.
Avanti plucked a thin square of cloth that she always kept tucked into the skirt of her sari. It was so convenient for quick dusting. She proceeded to wipe slowly, studying each item up for sale. A vase with a single, almost-negligible crack stood next to a figure of what looked like a shepherdess with a staff in hand and a lamb dancing playfully at her feet. The former was marked at 200 rupees and the second at 175 rupees. These were cheaper prices. Dirt cheap, she had heard her mistress say. Avanti couldn’t afford them. They were ten days’ wages. And these objects were only ornamental — they served no real purpose. Her eyes fell on a chip at the bottom of the vase. She placed it delicately back on the table. Avanti considered both carefully, wondering who would think them worth this price and take them home. She suddenly remembered that she hadn’t paid for her niece’s school uniform. She would take her this evening to be measured.
Finished with her wiping, as she turned to go back inside and finish up with the dishes, she stepped on a book lying on the floor. She inhaled dramatically, bending down quickly, touching both the tips of her fingers to the book and lifting them to her closed eyes, whispering an apologetic penance for this sin. She had disrespected knowledge. She lifted up the book and held it out to her mistress.
“Madam..” she called, hesitantly.
“Mm?” she said, from the far end of the dingy garage.
“Book,” Avanti said. “It was on the floor.”
Her mistress walked towards her, peering inquisitively until she finally reached her. “Oh. That? Never mind, throw it.”
“Uh?” Avanti hesitated.
“Throw it, we can’t sell it — the insides are yellow, it’s moth-eaten, see..,” she said, running her ring-adorned fingers over the page and pressing it back into Avanti’s hands.
Avanti took it and held it close to her chest. Tears pooled in her big, innocent eyes. She stood there for a moment, every sound around her more pronounced. She heard the harsh cawing of a crow, the dripping of a tap somewhere, the clanging of stainless steel vessels and the awful symphony of vehicles honking.
“Avanti,” her mistress said, staring at her intently.
“Sorry, madam,” she replied hastily, her cheeks flushing.
“No, keep it,” she replied, kindly.
“Keep?” she asked again, cocking her head to the side.
“Yes,” she nodded.
Avanti looked at the old pages, and she was convinced that there was life under all that dirt after all. She felt the tears quickly return to her eyes and she hugged the book, wiping its tattered cover with the end of her sari. It had a picture of a man with a worried expression reaching for a long strand of rope.
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The author of the story above wishes to remain anonymous.
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