Life farted. Again. A disgusting, smelly fart. Right in my face. The stench stifled my senses. Icky, grimy bodies rubbing against each other, searching for those early morning comfort zones in the sweat of complete strangers. Fragrant malli pookkal and perspiration diabolically ganging in on the innocent, unsuspecting Chennai middle class – at least, on us, the car-less ones. And for the last six years, this is how I have begun every grey day in this monochrome I call life. Right here, on the foot board of 23C. Lifting the pleats of my sari, I pushed myself into the bus. Heads turned, eyes scanned. I could feel the stares. In the folds of my pale pink sari, on my neck, my waist, my hips pronounced under the chiffon, on the delicate lines of kajal and lip liner marking my face. I could hear the frenzied heartbeat of young men. In the wild clatter of my glass bangles on freshly waxed, smooth skin. I know I am attractive. I have known it all along. And now, I am bored of it. Gaping mouths and drooling hormones have left me jaded. Pah! At 26, one would think I’d like the attention.
As usual, no seats. I clutched onto the ugly yellow rod stubbornly running above me. The sight drew vivid images of Snake in my head. I used to play it on Kiran Anna’s cell phone. I was good at Snake. Rather had been. Appa used to say that I was the best he had seen. He used to say that I was incredibly smart and that I would become famous. And rich. So rich that I could buy that alagaana paavadai that Niranjana wore. But Appa used to say a lot of things. Then again, no one had forced me to believe him. I just had. The same blind way I used to trust his hand on mine every time I had held onto that ugly yellow rod.
But Appa has been dead 11 years now. There is no way he was going to come out of that vague pit we call his grave, just to guide me through a perfectly normal Monday morning to work. Yet here it was, the firm grasp of a warm, sweaty hand on my own. For a weird moment, the past played present. I actually believed the hand was supposed to be there. A protected feeling, an awaited gesture. Then snap! Another sweaty palm was running itself down my back. Bloody perverts! “Enna galatta panren?!” I was furious. Bloodshot eyes glared back at me. A hideous leer escaping his paan red lips. Disgust sent a wave of bile up my throat. Choking on it, I slapped his dark, unshaven cheek. Hard. The lecherous smile still played through his yellow chipped teeth.
All of sudden, I was aware of all those stares again. Only this time, I felt they pierced through the folds of my pale pink sari, lingered on my neck, my waist, my hips, eyes, lips and the freshly waxed, smooth skin. I moved up in front and got off at the next stop. I work just two stops away. Walk-able distance only. And yes, Men. Dirty creatures they are! Barbaric. Rascals... And without warning, a tear rolled down my powdered cheek leaving a distinct trail. Aiyyo! I cant afford to look bad at work. Must stop thinking!
But it hardly works that way. You can't dictate things, not even to yourself.
Appa was wrong. He was wrong about everything he had taught us. About everything he believed in. He used to say that people were good and that we should be good children so that when we become big, we can be good people too. Just like everyone else. He used to say that we would become doctors and engineers. He used to say that Vinayaka Elayappa would take care of us. Hmmm. I think Appa was right there. After all, it is thanks to Elayappa that I got this job. He was the one who trained me. He taught me the little tricks, the bigger tricks and the best ones. He helped improve my resume. Yes, Appa was right about something.
Appa was wrong. He was wrong about everything he had taught us. About everything he believed in. He used to say that people were good and that we should be good children so that when we become big, we can be good people too. Just like everyone else. He used to say that we would become doctors and engineers. He used to say that Vinayaka Elayappa would take care of us. Hmmm. I think Appa was right there. After all, it is thanks to Elayappa that I got this job. He was the one who trained me. He taught me the little tricks, the bigger tricks and the best ones. He helped improve my resume. Yes, Appa was right about something.
People on the road were looking at me. Nothing new. I am always admired. Especially the way I walk, with a slightly obvious sway to my hips. But then again, like I said, I am bored of the attention and right now, too annoyed to care. After all, look what all the attention gives you. Every man who looks at you and speaks to you wants to bed you. How flattering.
Ah, yes. I reached. Slightly late.
“Maya? Where have you been? Indu Akka was looking for you. She is really angry. Your regular is in 207. He has been waiting for a while now. Run!!” Aarti looked tired. Already. Her lips were bleeding. That comes in our job description, I guess. Though Elayappa did not tell me that then.
I smiled at her, put down my bag at the counter, pushed up my breasts and adjusted the blouse to reveal my cleavage and walked off to 207.
