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

Sita Bhaskar
Minister was in danger of being buried in garlands, the policemen
hung them on the backdrop. Soon the Chief Minister’s picture that
made up the entire backdrop began to sag, unlike the real-life model
who continued to sit upright, albeit with a bored look on her face.
Finally the Chief Minister began her speech. “On my forty-fifth
birthday, I think of the people of Tamil Nadu and what I may do to
serve them, what I may do to better their lives. That is why I invited
forty-five men and women that I can share my birthday with. I invited
hard-working men and women, people who work for the soil, just like
I work for the common man.”
“What is she saying?” the women asked each other.
“She says we are like her.”
“See, I told you. She doesn’t trust her Ministers anymore.”
“Shhh… she says she called us because we work in the soil.”
Nirmala looked down at her hands. The only time she worked
in the soil was when she made mud pies with Akka’s children. Also
when she took them to the beach and they played in the sand. And she
almost forgot—when Akka wanted to change the soil in her potted
plants. Why didn’t the officials ask her that this morning instead
of hustling her into the jeep? She thought they were arresting her
for walking on the road, which in her opinion was the only choice
she had because the sidewalks had been dug up for repairs and she
was wearing her newly-repaired maroon slippers. If only they had
asked her, “Do you work with the soil?” she would’ve pointed to the
concrete maze of buildings around her and said, ”I would have to
buy soil if I want to work with it.” What a waste of a day! They had
brought her and all these other hard-working women here to stand
in line for hours to watch the sullen Chief Minister being garlanded
on her birthday? Even Akka would be skeptical when she heard the
reason for Nirmala’s absence.
Nirmala shuffled forward automatically, and suddenly she was at
the front of the line. “Pick a number,” she was instructed. Nirmala’s
hand trembled as she picked a piece of paper and gave it to the
policewoman. “Number 13,” the policewoman shouted across the
barricade to the policeman guarding the men. The Chief Minister sat
on the dais with a distant look in her eyes as if the problems of the
world weighed heavily on her shoulders. Her gray silk sari shimmered
at the pleats and rippled across her shoulders. Her stern face was only
marginally softened by two distinctive streaks of gray in her hair.
Crab Orchard Review ◆ 11