THE REFUGEE

  • 07 Dec - 13 Dec, 2019
  • Mag The Weekly
  • Fiction

She tugged at her skirt.

Yes, it was well below her knee.

“Modest”, some might even say.

But not long enough to keep at bay the scorching stares that would fall on the bare length of her legs.

She picked up a pair of red wedge heels.

No, not today.

It was easier to walk in flats, not to mention run, if she needed to. She changed out of her heels and with a wistful sigh, put them back on the shoe rack, unused as always.

She locked her flat, adjusted the shoulder strap of her handbag closer to her neck and pinned it under her elbow before she made her way downstairs.

The security guard at the gate was snoozing.

She kept her eyes firmly downcast as she walked the hundred-metre stretch to the bus stop.

“Don’t make eye contact. Don’t make eye contact.”

Her daily mantra thrummed loudly through her being.

A bicycle passed by close enough to graze her arm. The rider rang the bell unnecessarily loudly, as he whizzed past, even though she was on the pavement. She refused to look up.

“Don’t make eye contact. Don’t give him a reason.”

There was the usual crowd at the bus stop. Men and women thronging together, an uneasy space separating the genders.

Women dressed in Saris and Shalwar Kameez. Women with the visible signs of much marriedness – bold streaks of scarlet on their forehead and black and gold beaded necklaces dangling loudly from their necks, indicating that they were spoken for and somebody else’s property. Older women who exuded matronliness– both the loving, warm, all forgiving kind and also the stereotypical hostel warden, Mother Superior kind.

Young women too – barely out of college, some still at university. The only ones who had a swish in their ponytail and a rebellious sparkle in their eyes. They looked around daringly, emboldened by the comfort of numbers and the power of teasing laughter to be directed at the men who could not keep their eyes off them.

She envied them. She pitied them.

Life had not broken their spirit yet.

The bus arrived.

The women made a beeline for the front door and the men for the back. They could not be trusted to board together. You never know what would provoke a man to misbehave.

No, in this country we are not civilised enough to let men and women board a bus together.

She elbowed her way to a space in front. It had been a good day so far.

The day had just begun.

She went straight to her cubicle and switched on the computer after a short muttered prayer to the Mother Goddess.

She skimmed through the news that had come in from across the world.

Rapes, mutilations, beheadings, bombings.

Her job was to compile the part of the news that made it easier for the readers to sit back and sip their coffee and muse that things were not so bad after all.

Her job at the magazine had gotten both easier and worse over the four years she had been working there.

The world was wrapped in the death embrace of wars – both covert and overt.

Wars for supremacy and land. Wars against women and humanity.

But despite wading through the quick sand of depressing news, she always hit pay dirt. Thank you, funny cats and finger-biting toddlers of the world. There was always something to distract the readers from having to finish their weekly dose of news with a bitter taste in their mouths and a furrowed brow.

A sharp knock on her cubicle partition made her look up.

“Hey, why so serious? Work getting you down?”

It was Suri on the way back to his cubicle from his mid-morning walk to the coffee machine.

Cupping the Styrofoam cup in his hand, he was leaning lazily against her cubicle wall, looking down at her. He liked standing there. On some days, he could look down her top, as well.

She did not even register his head to toe look anymore. The look was not just his either. It was the one she got from the random male relative she saw on the street, the one who loudly wondered why she was not married yet.

It was the one the auto-rickshaw driver gave her when she hailed one after a rare late-night movie with friends.

It was the one every woman was familiar with, from the time she understood what it was, to really be born as a woman in this world.

It burnt at first, a slow burn that scarred. But one got used to it.

Why, even goddesses had to walk through fire to prove their right to dignity. Why would a mere mortal woman expect to be treated differently?

She shrugged at Suri and turned back to her work.

Undeterred, he went on, “Don’t worry! If you can’t make the deadline, just cry and say that you have your…”

He coughed pointedly and walked away, a loud, braying laugh in his wake.

She stared blankly as the last swirls of laughter clutched at her mockingly. She wondered why she had not gotten angry or at least come up with a witty comeback.

Didn’t she care anymore? What was the point? This would always be a man’s world.

She squirmed as she waited at the bus stop. She had stayed later than usual at work. The dash to get to the bus stop before the last bus had proven futile. It had come and gone. And now, here she was waiting for an auto-rickshaw to pass by. Men who usually clung to the dark corners were slithering out. Their eyes narrowed into slits, their mouths stretched into frozen leers.

Men in flashy cars announcing their presence to the world after sunset with music that has lyrics disrespecting a woman.

She was only a few kilometres away from the walled security of her apartment. But it was too risky to walk and waiting… waiting was never a good option.

Her mobile phone rang, startling her.

Like a fire in the wild keeps the animals at bay, the vultures stayed their slow encircling and slunk back into the shadows.

“Mum? Yes, I’m at the bus stop. Some last minute work… No, no don’t worry. I’m getting a rickshaw. When? Next month? Hmmm… Okay, I’ll ask my boss… I’ll tell you tomorrow. I need to hang up now.”

“Auto! Auto!”

She fidgeted with the hem of her Kurta blindly looking out of the window of her childhood bedroom.

Her father, a retired bank manager was out in the garden. The roses, red and in full bloom had been tended to a hundred times since yesterday. But he wanted everything to be perfect today.

Her mother had taken a break from correcting term papers to get the snacks organised. Her younger brother had wanted to come home and received an earful from her parents in tandem. She had promised to tell him everything as soon as she got a moment.

He was dressed in black and white. White formal, full-sleeved shirt and black trousers. The dervishes in her stomach were whirling across his brow. He took a sip of the coffee and cleared his throat.

The elders had retired to the dining room and were loudly discussing politics or at least pretending to.

“It’s a long way off… 12–14 hours by flight…it’s cold most of the year and you won’t be able to get a job, on the visa I have. But I have a house and you can study and volunteer and there are museums… And also…”

“Can I go out after dark?”

He looked confused at the sudden interruption in his much-rehearsed speech.

She took a sip of her coffee and waited patiently.

“Umm… yes, yes you can… and there are museums and also…”

“So, it’s safe for women to go out? And people, I mean, men don’t eve-tease or you know?”

He looked straight into her eyes. She was not baiting him. It was a sincere question. He felt a wave wash over him. It was not love. It was much too soon for that, if at all.

It was a good feeling though. He wanted to keep her safe. It jolted him, this feeling.

But this girl, woman rather, might look calm and collected, though her eyes said that she was a battle-scarred warrior. He might want to keep her safe, but she certainly would not appreciate the sentiment.

At least, not yet.

He slowly kept the drained coffee cup on the centre table. She was still waiting for his response. He leaned forward and said, “No. It’s a safe place.”

The straight line of her mouth curved upwards in a smile.

No, it would not take that long for love to arrive after all.

It was a grand affair. It had been tedious though.

Wedding preparations and visa requirements.

Wardrobe shopping and appeasement of relatives.

Packing. Weighing. Repacking.

And now, unpacking.

The key turned in the main door. He shook and stomped the snow off his feet before walking into the welcome warmth of the house. She looked up from the table and smiled at her husband of six months. The plates had already been laid and familiar and delicious aromas were wafting happily around the room.

After a quick kiss, he went to wash his hands.

“So, how was your day? Did you go out today?” he called out from the washroom.

“I went to the library today. Mostly archiving. They were rather happy that I could stay on for as long as they want. And why wouldn’t they be? Not like they have to pay me…I’m just a volunteer, after all.”

He came out, drying his hands on a towel. Throwing it on to the back of the chair he pulled out, he sat and waited for her to sit as well.

“Don’t worry about the money. I’m here to provide for you. You know that you just need to tell me if you need anything, anything at all.”

“It’s not that… I know that you will…come, let’s eat. How was your day?”

She nodded as he started talking about his day, only half listening.

He was a nice man. He truly was. But why was it so hard for him to understand that she needed her own money. Money that she earned no matter how meagre it was.

But she had learnt that it was hard for men to understand certain things.

Like the fact that men here were not all that different.

“Smile a little baby. C’mon,” one would holler as she walked down to the library.

“Hey there, gorgeous. Come talk for a while,” another would go as she walked home with grocery.

The faces were foreign. The sentiments completely familiar.

This had always been her life. This was a completely new life.

He got up with the dishes.

“Now, you go relax. I’ll finish washing up and join you.”

He was a good man. Better than most.

But was better good enough, when she was always expected to be the best version of herself?

Maybe it was for now.

Did she have a choice?

She went and sat down in front of the TV. The news was showing a refugee camp somewhere in a different continent.

Their displacement mirrored her own.

Their faces were hers, albeit unmasked.

Eyes bright with unshed tears and unfulfilled dreams.

Lips tight to keep harsh words of regret from escaping.

Hands outstretched to accept whatever alms of sanity and security that came their way.

Gaze firmly down to prevent provocation.

Mind tightly reined into a state of perpetual gratitude, never allowed to dwell on what might have been.

Expelled by force or by self-imposed banishment, each one looking to build a new life away from the harsh realities of life at home.

But when you were a woman, could you ever leave?

Would you ever be anything more than a refugee in a man’s world?

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