The Hungry Porter

 

With the sizzling onions, crackling of mustard seeds, and Zakir Hussein’s tabla on the radio, tempering rain drops on the marble window sill would have been nice.  But the sun was on it’s best behavior outside. Steam was rising from the scorching tiled floor, when Ram hosed it down. Outside across the street I gazed at a porter.  He reminded me of Maila. 

Maila was a porter across my workplace, who I wished to bring home. I wanted to hose him down clean and then feed him until he could eat no more.  It would take months to fill up those hollow spaces on him, but once they did I wondered how he would look.  I wondered how he would look once the creamy sun glazed skin hidden behind all the hair has been uncovered and those pale brown desperate eyes covered by the overgrown eyebrows have been trimmed off.  I wondered if it was possible to tame his wild village man’s soul into a gentleman’s.  

I would think about the looks from the neighbors when they saw a young girl bringing home a homeless young man, and just like that the chain of thoughts the porter provoked in me, would end.  In my neighborhood one small insignificant thing like it could ruin a girl’s reputation forever.  Both my parents had flown to India for my cousin’s wedding, so I had to be very careful how I utilized my freedom.  I had to contend myself by watching him from the window of my office canteen, during lunch breaks.

I realized of course that he was not some toy who struck my fancy and therefore I could take him home and do what I please. I knew there would be consequences that I might not have even dreamt of.   

The first time I noticed him was  when there was a strike going on.  No private cabs or auto rickshaws were available.  The only transportation one could see were the government busses, which never ran on time.  On that day too it arrived late and as I watched a yellow Mercedes Benz covered in a fine brown dust approaching, overflowing with people, I pictured myself being crushed between men, women, sweaty skins, the smell…the touching… but I couldn’t have possibly walked six miles in that heat!  I started a half hearted effort by trying to push the crowd aside with both my hands when an aggressive woman shoved right past me, and the bus started to move.  I jogged behind it hoping to grab the pillar but I had exhausted all the courage to act out of my true nature.  

I found him looking at me just about that time.  His hungry light brown eyes were peering at me through strands of dusty rust colored hair.  I felt silly.  People are chasing and missing busses all the time in this country, so what was it about me that he found noteworthy? I was offended that a mere porter, the Bhariya, should be allowed to judge me that way. I must stare him down I thought, and looked back at him.  No matter how long I looked however, his gaze wouldn’t falter. 

He wasn’t looking at me.  Tall and lean, resting impassively against a wooden push-cart, in a dirty green waist-coat and brown  shorts,  he was in a world of his own.  He had something in the right corner of his mouth that he chewed leisurely. He looked starved out of his mind, and his eyes seemed to be begging.  Those eyes evoked a strange emotion in me, infecting me with an overwhelming desire to feed him, and my anguish of how I was going to go home, did not matter anymore. All that mattered was to feed him and make that look go away.  

I walked to a tea shop nearby and bought a packet of six tiny doughnuts. I held the packet with both unsteady hands as I did not trust the thin clear plastic that held the doughnuts.  

The porter had his back towards me when I lifted the packet,

“hey listen!” I called. 

He did not respond or turn towards me, so I nudged him with the packet.  He turned and puzzled.

“Here…take it!” I offered.

The thing he was chewing turned out to be a twig.

“Take it!” I insisted. 

He spit out the twig and popped his head out to take a closer look at me.  “What do you want?” he asked me.    

I could feel the presence of some audience at that stage – two beggars and a porter.  I was afraid to look at them directly, because I knew exactly what they must be thinking, and embarrassment started to seep in.  My eyes fell from his gaze.

He took a step closer; I took a step back.  He laughed a loud “ha! ha! ha!” I thought people only laughed like that in comic books! The ‘ha, ha’ was pretty pronounced.   

He said; “I can carry ten times the weight than anyone over here. A whole fridge, a TV, a sofa-set and then you on the top if you wish, for miles.  And God will burn me down right now, if I’ve accepted even a paisa less than three hundred rupees…And you are offering me a bag of bread? What am I, a fool?” 

I did not have any answer to that.  I stared at him like a teenager with a crush, cheeks burning, legs shivering.  His voice and piercing gaze was doing strange things to me.  A person who would make me feel that way should be a handsome stranger who owned a BMW, not a stinking porter with a push cart!  Even my boyfriend never had that effect on me.

“Nothing...I mean, I want nothing from you.  Just eat this.”

“What!”

“Are you deaf?! I said eat this!”

He looked at me as if trying to read my mind.  “aaah…ok. I get it,” coming closer, giving me a whiff of musky sweat, “you want me to f*** you?” he said.

My whole body was electrocuted.  Throwing the doughnuts at him, I ran.  At first, I kept running not knowing where I should head and then I crossed the street and took a u-turn,  heading back to my office.  The canteen boy was cleaning up, preparing to close down when I reached.

“I told you, you will not find any taxi today” he said as I collapsed on the chair.  

“would you like some tea?” 

“If it’s not much trouble” I said.  

From the corner of my eyes, across, I could see that the doughnut story had become a huge sensation.  The obnoxious porter was surrounded by other porters who were roaring with laughter as he ranted away with a big grin. What was he saying? A crazy chick wanted a sexual favor from him in return to doughnuts? I did not want to ever see his face again. 

“Just hang out here till seven, the strike will ease and then you’ll get plenty auto rickshaws” the boy said, to which I nodded.

Since that day every once in a while, during lunch time, I started to search for him.  He would be strolling about dazed, sleeping on a step of some shop or sometimes chattering away with his porter friends.  In between the tittle-tattle of my own with my colleagues, I was also beginning to notice how he walked – tilting little towards the left, how wide his jaw opened when he yawned or how often he scratched his beard when he was in a deep conversation. He had several cups of tea and made his friends pay. In a week’s time I also caught his friend screaming out his name – “O Maila!” 

So, Maila hung out with porters across my office building, drinking tea, ogling at women, never missing a chance to pick up a fight; especially when a new porter wandered to his territory, and he got along the Namlo!  A thick knitted jute rope.    Namlo is an indispensable means for Porters to carry weight, and since I’ve known him, Maila never used his.  He wore it like an accessory across his neck.

While his friends stared at every potential customer who entered the giant furniture showroom, Maila sipped tea and took it easy.  While the friends sprinted almost jumping over each other when someone needed a piece of furniture transported by foot, or to be loaded in a vehicle, Maila stretched and sprawled himself on the pavement.  On the rare occasions when a customer directly approached him, Maila acted difficult.  I could tell from their distraught faces, that Maila was demanding exorbitant amount in exchange for his labor.  The argument often ended up in a fight. 

 A woman strolled Maila and stood beside him. She had her sari wrapped tightly around her belly and the blouse hugged her upper body making her boobs almost pop out.  Maila seemed oblivious to her presence. But something in their manner suggested that they already knew each other.  A naked image of Maila and the woman played in my head. I wondered if he was a good lover.  Did the love making include foreplay? Did they kiss first or head straight for the main dish?      

 “Are you coming down with a fever?” Shilpi’s voice almost made me jump out of my seat. Shilpi liked the way I reacted and mocked me with her eyes chewing a dumpling.

“No…” I said turning my attention towards my soup.

“Are you sure? Your cheeks have turned red apples” 

I wished she’d leave me alone.

I sipped cold soup, and was nibbling on a bread roll, when across the street, Maila picked up a piece of discarded cigarette.  He took a good minute to examine it, and then chucked it.  I thought I heard him make a disgusted grunt like sound as he did it, and grinned to himself.  

Shilpi said, “And now you’re grinning...” 

Maila was strolling away.  I felt as if my heart was physically leaving my body to go with him.  I wished I had spare eyes that could follow him.  I wished I could see what he did, where he slept, did he live alone? Perhaps someone waits for him…

After having prepared a modest meal for two his wife, Laxmi, would be waiting for him in a makeshift shelter of discarded wooden boards, torn sacks and tins, in a maroon blouse patched up in places and Sari with torn ends. The bitterness and frustration had become a prominent expression, and she’d developed a habit of sighing.

Tucking away some stray hair from her face, she turned towards an opening, which was supposed to be a window but from outside, it looked more like they ran out of sacks and tins to cover up the shelter.  Through it, Jamuna gazed at a man sweeping the street.  She liked listening to the rhythmic sound of his broom scraping the street every afternoon. It would calm her. She had wanted to talk to him in Maila’s absence, but always changed her mind.  He was not much to look at, but at least he worked to support his family. And recently her curiosity was aroused by any man who worked.

Just then Maila would walk in bending to half his size; the shelter could not accommodate his full height so even inside while standing he kept his head down.  He beamed at his wife.  Laxmi won’t return his cheerfulness.  When she first met him, she had found his exuberance charming but now it annoyed her.  She envied him.         

After making himself comfortable on a mattress of knitted hay, Maila’s eyes would wander from torn end of her Sari to the nape of her neck, and would settle on the side; on a deep cut she received that morning while they made love, from an edge of a protruding tin of their shelter.

Jamuna looked away.  She knew what he was thinking…animal! She would start sighing and tucking more frequently.  

How conveniently he’d forgotten all those promises! If only she’d married that shopkeeper.  What was his name? Whatever it was, he was crazy about her.  But she had fallen for Maila. One side-way devil like grin was all it took for her to get knocked out of senses.  She’d lost her head for a pig!  

 “That sheepish grin, smooth skin, that body...none of it’s going to feed you!” Her father had told her.  But those words had not made sense to her; they did now.  

“Lunch time up. C’mon let’s get to work!” The manager said, sending all the staff scurrying towards their cabins.  

I did not get to finish my soup.  In my cabin, I found a huge pile of files waiting for me.   

He would watch with amusement as the strands of hair tormented her, her lip trembling,

 “Where have you been?” She’d ask him. 

“Nowhere” He’d reply.

There was playfulness in his voice and that impenetrable calm exterior annoyed her. “What were you doing?” She demanded, her eyes doubled, filled with rage.

“Nothing…just thinking about you” He’d say.  

The poverty and hardships had plagued them since his partner cheated him out of business.  They were running a successful garage.  It was around the same time he met her.  She had marched into his garage, dragging her scooter.  She had to be somewhere in ten minutes, but her Scooty would not cooperate, she’d told him.  And Maila repaired it in such a way that she’d have to return to him, again and again. 

Who’d have thought like would turn out this way…

After loitering around uselessly the whole day, when he came home, his wife miraculously produced food on his plate.  He had a vague idea that it had something to so with a tiny pathetic piece of land she received as a dowry, but how did she manage it, he never wondered. as long as he did not have to swallow his pride and do menial work.  

That afternoon; “Are you in love with him?” A message flashed on my screen.  

“I just met him.” I send back.

“I don’t mean Ajay. The Loafer across the street. I’ve been watching you.”  

I looked up at nosy Anjali Deshpandey who peeped at me from the side of her screen.

“I am thinking about writing a novel” I told her.

END