My Capital, their's too

Published in the Pioneer on May 29, 2004

This is the way it isn't - tropical weather, a penthouse suite in the Mediterranean, champaign and caviar, and a blonde in bed between sinfully black satin sheets.
This is the way it is - unbearably hot, a barsati in Kalkaji, stale food and cheap beer, and definitely no blonde between black satin sheets. Life in Delhi can be difficult.
My maid disagrees. Twenty-two-year old and a mother of two, she is an economic migrant like me. Came from Bihar two years ago and made Delhi home. Something I haven't been able to do yet. The city's been good to her, she says. Gave her a job, a shed and hope. Most importantly, independence.
Basanti's story bears no novelty for me. It's been happening to "them" since the beginning of time itself. It's a story of poverty, of exploitation, of nights of going to bed unfed, uncared for. Of being a part of a family of seven. With one earning member - a father who tills someone else's land for a lark. "He had incurred huge debts. We had to mortgage the small tract of land that we had," Basanti remembers. And then there was the social stigma. Of being a shudra. Strange how belonging to a particular caste takes away the right to drink from the same well. Or being treated by the village doctor. Basanti's elder sister had died of typhoid. "The doctor won't come. He was an upper caste. And we had no money to pay."
Her story is a masala mix. The complete tear-jerker. The landlord, of the pot-bellied, hukkah-smoking kind, offered to help out. With a little help from Basanti in return. The good man wanted some help with the libido! So Basanti ran. With her husband. To another city. Delhi. Another life.
I roll my joint and look at Basanti. How time passes. This woman, when I first saw her, was but a pale shadow of her present self. She came to me a year back, looking for work. My landlady, who I famously get along with for the free cups of tea and mostly unwanted advice she offers, had asked me to employ her. "Very hardworking beta, very honest. And very, very needy. Give her a job." Basanti's been doing the chores since then.
She had a husband and a baby when she started working for me. She had another in between. I was surprised, angry. "What's wrong with you people. You can't take care of yourself properly. How will you manage two kids?" She had only smiled, the proud mother. But manage she did. Took up work in three more households. The husband got himself a job with a garage. They have managed a one room shack in the neighbourhood shanty. "A pucca makaan is what I want now. For the kids. And education. Don't want them to grow up like us. The city will take care of them. Like it did for us," she says dreamy-eyed. I nod.
Maybe, just maybe, it'll give me the blonde as well.