Refugee - A short story

With an uncertain smile, she knocked once again on the closed door. Nothing. No sign that there was anyone in there! What was she to do? Khadija had walked almost an hour to reach here. The sun was too harsh to venture out and walk back all the way. Madam had asked her to come back here again in the morning. So she did. Maybe she was late. Maybe Madam had left already. She thought of knocking once more but then decided against it. Resigned, she sat down at the front porch. Let’s wait here for some time. Where else could she go? She is yet to find work. People speak strange languages here, in this city. She cannot understand much. But Madam spoke her language. What a relief it was! Oh how she wish Madam could offer her permanent work, but she already had a maid. She, therefore, was offered a weekly job of cleaning and arranging book cases and wardrobes. She had accepted that with gratitude.

Only yesterday Khadija had cleaned the big wardrobe and arranged sarees, suits and pants that Madam wore. She had planned to clean the book cases today, and Madam had agreed. But she was not there; maybe she had got it wrong. Maybe Madam expected her to be back only next week. Whatever it is, she was here and there was nothing for her to do but to return as the house seemed locked. Taking a deep sigh, she pulled the handkerchief in which she had folded a few rupees and a few coins. As she spread out her meager savings, she could not help but admire the white embroidery on the red square piece of cloth, a big white rose, leaves fanning out and a name lovingly inscribed – Tamanna. Her daughter. All of nine years of age and already adept at the fine art of embroidery! Her heart did a small somersault as she remembered the innocent face of her young girl. She was far away now, in the care of her paternal grandmother. She had promised to send enough money to keep her away from working in bidi factory. It was already half a month and she had not managed to save up even the minimum amount due to the money lender back in her village from whom she borrowed a princely sum of 10,000 taka to come to Hindustan. Many of her friends had done so in past and are now well off. Not only have they paid off the money lender, but have also built pucca houses and have farm land of their own.

It was this magical transformation from penury to life of plenty that made her cross the wide paddy field on foot and then board a precariously tilting overcrowded boat at night to cross Padma. Before day break Khadija had reached a check-post where the agent had made arrangements for them to quietly enter Hindustan. With at least fifty other women and men from her’s and surrounding villages she had set foot in a different country, which deceptively looked just as her own, with same green pastures and low muddy huts, thatched with palm leaves, bleached to almost white in harsh sun.

She knew that coming to Hindustan was illegal and that she could be caught by police and put in jail. She had heard terrifying tales of such captures from many in her village. But she could not understand why? She had not come here to steal or to harm anyone. She had come here to work and save enough many to go back and take care of her two sons and a daughter, the nine year old Tamanna. Strange rules big men made, she thought amused! Sitting at the porch, thinking about the events of past couple of weeks that she was in Hindustan, she realized these people may speak different languages, but was so similar in the way they lived!

Initially she was made to walk for hours in a herd of men and women, carrying meager belongings and the scent of their homeland, Khulna, a nondescript district in Bangladesh. After hours of walking through paddy fields, soft undulating streams and then dingy, dark lanes of a muffasil town, they were boarded on a train. It took them three days on the overcrowded, stuffy and at times suffocating coupe to reach this big city, they called Bangalore. Once they landed here, they were lead in a bus that took almost two hours in the wee hours of morning and offloaded them in a shabby looking neighborhood. Here she met hundreds of her folks, men and women who came from Khulna to make a fortune!

The first week she shared the hutment with six other ladies from her district. Since she could not contribute financially, she was to cook, clean, fill water and wash clothes for all of the inhabitants of the small hut. But soon even her labor was falling short and Khadija was forced to borrow money from the lender to contribute her share of rice to the group. She then approached a lady who promised to get her work in exchange of one month’s salary.

She was taken to huge buildings that reached the sky, almost! A few houses that she went to looked enormous, like palaces! She was awestruck. She had never seen such glory back in her village, or even in the sadar town! In the bright light and posh surroundings, she felt grouch and inadequate. Yet, she managed a confident smile in hope of landing some work. Luck was not with her. All these palatial householders spoke a language she could not comprehend at all. So, she was without wok even after enlisting help of the lady who got everyone a job.

It was just by chance that she met Madam. She had been refused in yet another home and was walking back towards the ghetto when she heard Madam speaking to someone over phone, struggling with two huge bags. She had rushed to her and elated to hear bangla had all but cried in relief. She offered to carry the heavy bags, and still angling the phone on her shoulder, Madam had allowed her to pick up the bags. She walked beside Madam as she entered a small lane lined with white similar looking two story houses. In the quiet of the afternoon the locality with its pristine white houses and bright patches of green gardens, looked peacefully sedate! Hope had risen in her and she was sure to find employment with the lady animatedly speaking on the phone!

That was three days ago. Though she had a weekly job now, she was still too far away from regular employment. And that worried her. She had hoped Madam will keep her as a maid or refer to someone, but that too was not happening. With a deep sigh she got up to leave but just at that moment the maid who worked there appeared. “What are you doing here?” she asked in hindi. Though she could understand what was asked, she could not reply coherently in that language. She only said , “Madam?”

“Office”, was the syllable thrown at her. She could sense a disgust in the other maid. Why? What had she done? Maybe, she perceived her to be a threat to her cozy job! She tried to communicate that she would want to wait for the lady of the house to return but was strongly put down. Now the maid was asking her to leave while she turned the key in the lock. Why? Why can she enter the house when Madam was not there and she was asked to go back. Wasn't she a maid too? She thought herself to be at par with the other maid and followed her inside. There was an angry exchange and soon the other maid was shouting at top of her lungs. This alerted the neighbors who gathered there. Khadija could not understand what was being exchanged, the language was completely beyond her. But by the gestures of the other maid she could make out she was being accused of something. The ruckus went on and finally there were Policemen. Khadija was too scared to say anything. She was being pulled and pushed and shoved. She found herself drowning in a dark abyss.

She was in a lock up when she came to her senses. Looking at the gloomy surroundings and finding herself in a jail of sorts, she started crying. A policewoman approached her and ordered her to keep quiet. She was then unceremoniously hauled and pushed out of the cell. The agent who had brought her from her village was there and was speaking to the Policeman sitting in the chair. He was showing some papers, one that had her picture. She was both relieved and worried.

In a few minutes she was asked to leave with the agent. As she followed him outside, he scolded her for being a nuisance. She was tired and dejected, she begged him to send her back to her village. “Are you mad? How can I send you back?”

“why? Why can’t you send me back? So many of my village folks have gone back, why can’t I?” she asked agitated.

“Ok give me 10,000 taka and I will send you back.”he said with a cynical smile.

“You know that is not possible. Where will I get that much money?” She was terrified.

“Don’t think of going back then. Find some work, earn and then when you can pay for it, think of returning.” He smiled slyly handing her a card with her picture. “Here take this. This is your voter ID card. Carry this to that office hoisting Indian flag and you will be paid.”

She took the card and walked a few paces to a shabby looking tin roofed room hoisting the Indian tricolor. Outside there was a que of people holding similar cards. When she finally reached inside someone took her card, made some notes in a register and gave her Rs. 500 and a sack of rice. She was elated. Outside, she asked a woman carrying similar bag of rice, “what is this magical card?”

“it’s the voter ID card, don’t you know?” the other woman said.

“Vote card? What for?” Khadija continued further surprised.

“what for? Well, I don’t know that but it sure gives us rice and money at times and when you show it to Police, they do not bother you”, said the other woman conspiratorially.

“will this get me work?” asked Khadija.

“No dear, everyone here has this card. And not everyone gets work. So, that is up to your luck,” smiled the other woman as she walked away.

Khadija was left staring at the card in her hand. She then slowly pulled out the small red handkerchief embroidered by her daughter and safely tucked away the Rs. 500 note and the voter card. It must be something precious she thought, if it got her rice and money. She will give it to her daughter when she returned. With this thought, and a relieved smile, she started walking back to the ghetto where dimly lit hut awaited her.