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

12 ◆ Crab Orchard Review
Sita Bhaskar
Nirmala’s legs, thus far held in place by firm feet in maroon slippers,
began to wobble. Was it all a ploy? What would the Chief Minister do
with Number 13?
Gaja fanned his face with the folded paper. He was not a son
of the soil. He was born and raised in Madras, a city by all accounts,
a haphazard concrete jungle if one wanted the complete picture. The
only soil he saw was the soil dug up during sidewalk repairs. The closest
he came to the soil was when a hot coal piece fell out of his iron, even
though he had clamped it shut, and Gaja had to scramble to shove the
coal piece from the blouse he was ironing so that it did not burn the
blouse. It crumbled into ash in his hands and felt like soft, light mud. If
the officers had asked him before bullying him on the road this morning
he would’ve told them. Now he’d lost wages for a whole day and all for
nothing. About this time, he would be taking his mid-morning break
and sipping a glass of weak tea while smoking his beedi. His customers
didn’t care if the Chief Minister was celebrating her forty-fifth birthday
or even eightieth. Some of them might even have sent their clothes
to the big stores with noisy shutters that came clattering down every
night—stores that used machines to do what Gaja did with his heavy
coal iron.
“Number 13, number 13. Who has number 13?” the policeman
shouted at the men, as if summoning them before a firing squad.
Gaja broke out of his reverie. “Saar, Saar.” He raised his hand.
“Come on, come on.” The policeman ushered him in front of
the Chief Minister. From the garish giant-size cutouts of the Chief
Minister mounted at vantage spots in the city where the glittering
sari and expansive shawls overshadowed the heavily-jowled serene
face to the imperious woman in a bulletproof vest who filled the green
and red lacquer chair with carved peacocks highlighted in gold set on
four black curved legs was a dizzying journey for Gaja. He did what
the sycophantic Ministers did in the Chief Minister’s presence—he
instantly prostrated before her, not daring to raise his face.
In a synchronized movement, Nirmala, who’d been ushered
into the Chief Minister’s presence, also fell at her feet.
When Gaja and Nirmala raised themselves, they were given
small garlands made of marigold flowers. Surely such anemic garlands
were not meant to adorn the exalted neck before them, so they turned