Crab Orchard Review Vol. 12, No. 2, our

Sita Bhaskar
not embroidered or lace-trimmed wisps of white like Akka’s (as she
called her mistress), Nirmala’s handkerchiefs were made of discarded
pieces of cloth sewn together in eye-catching patterns. But an hour
ago, in the confusion of being coaxed into a jeep by official-looking
men, she had lost her handkerchief. It was only by a stroke of good
luck that she had saved her new slippers. The left slipper had slipped
out when Nirmala was trying to climb into the jeep without showing
her legs to the goons gathered on the roadside. But as she scrambled
for a foothold someone flung the slipper into the jeep and she was
able to reclaim it. Slippers—new to her but discarded by her mistress
because of broken heels. Nirmala had taken them to her neighbor, the
cobbler, and he replaced the heels with matching ones from another
pair worn out at the toes.
Nirmala straightened her pallu and stood upright in her maroon
slippers held in place by four thin straps running across her feet. She
did not question why she was being brought to the Chief Minister’s
residence. If it was because she had been walking on the road instead
of the sidewalk, she was prepared with her defense. The Chief Minister
was a woman; she would understand that a sidewalk under repair was
not the best place to walk with newly-repaired maroon slippers with
four thin straps.
Though the hot and humid morning air hung heavy over the
crowd, rumors—like a lover’s cool breath—drifted down the line
of forty-five women who had been brought to the Chief Minister’s
residence. Even though they couldn’t see the residence from where
they stood, the women were proud that they had been summoned so
urgently. “See those Ministers sitting in the enclosure? She is going to
send them all to jail and make us her Ministers.”
“Why?”
“Stands to reason. We know how to manage money. See how we
keep our brothers and sisters fed and clothed with the pittance we
earn.”
“We know how to hide our money from drunken good-fornothing
fathers or husbands.”
“What? Hide money? Where? A pouch made out of your sari
pallu? Do you know how much money Tamil Nadu has? All these
white people coming from America and begging our country to take
their money. It will weigh down your pouch. In fact there is no pouch
big enough—six yards of your sari won’t be enough for that much
money.”
Crab Orchard Review ◆ 7