TRANSLATED FROM PUNJABI BY SATBIR CHADHA
We were going through the terrifying Corona Virus pandemic times, and the constraints of the Lockdown were upon us. Mankind has grappled with many such endemics before, but this was a rare and unknown new strain of the Coronavirus, which naturally had no known cure. All attempts to fight it or contain it were like shooting arrows in the dark.
In the beginning we were apprehensive for our basic daily needs and staples, also wary of the imminent claustrophobic mandate of staying indoors. But all our fears were unfounded. We found newer ways to kill time, and the vegetable and fruit vendors were plying their goods as usual. Sweepers and garbage-collectors never missed a day in the service of our colony. It was as if problems too bypass the areas where the affluent and highly educated upper-class lives.
Ours was a Posh colony, we considered ourselves to be the high gentry, to the extent that at any lapse in the electric or water supply, or any other service, we would be heard saying, “What’s the use of living in such a costly colony, if even basic services are not regularly available.” This did not mean that we did not want to live here, rather we were flaunting our wealth and status, and that as such, we deserved premium uninterrupted supply of the services.
So as we were going through the tough Lockdown, a small group of us neighbours, made a plan that we should felicitate and honour the sanitation workers who were keeping our surroundings clean, despite the situation. This was being done in other neighbourhoods too, by offering them floral garlands, showering them with petals, or applauding them and clapping for them.
We were all excited about the plan, but most animated were the women with the most active Facebook, Instagram or Twitter accounts, that they were longing to post something on. Of late they had exhausted their creativity by posting clips of their cooking, or their mopping of the floor. Over and over again. They anyway never had anything new in their minds except their clothes. Their selfies taken in the vacant lane lost the charm with too much repetition, and any way, how many new poses can you strike with your face, and how many new angles of a smile?
I too was happy that something nice was being planned, I perceived that with the shared enthusiasm and some influence from outsiders, some good may be achieved. Clips of the variety of noodles being cooked in their modular kitchens may make one drool, but cannot be eaten.
This whole idea too was not original, it was imitated from others, Television had broadcast many such episodes. I did moan our lack of originality, still I thought, ‘Daag Achhey hain’, as they said in the commercials, for this way we could do something I liked, and it ought to be done too, for, do we not have a tradition of donating a tenth of our earnings, as “Daswand’’? Simply reckon this: restaurants, hotels, cinema, weekend outings, shopping malls, topped with pizzas and burgers home delivered, online shopping, even browsing the apps one would end up buying something, some tidbit or other, lured by a free delivery. We were saving a lot these days, so even if not one tenth, we could certainly spare some money for the needy.
Thus inspired, I suggested to the group that the next month, when the workers came for their salary, we should pay them an extra fifty rupees in addition to the regular fifty rupees, they would like it and also get some extra money. All hell let loose, at once the most stylish Aunty said, “Hey no way Suraj, don’t even think of this! They will make it their right and expect and demand more money every month.”
Seeing my shocked look she added, “If we want to give them financial aid, we shall do it some other way.”
Well, I stuck to my ideas, but as I always end up complying with these Aunties and ‘Bhabhis’, I agreed to this too. I gain something by doing this. You may believe that when cooking new dishes they would keep me in their good books, and send me a taster, but no, never. What would these women share when they themselves depended on Zomato. One day I made bold to ask, “Bhabhi, how did that dish taste, the one which you shared in your video?” She replied, “It was not cooked for eating, it was made to flaunt on Facebook.” In fact the only gain I got was an occasional ‘like’ or ‘share’ on my facebook posts, and once in a while a comment like ‘nice’ or ‘awesome’. What more does a man need these days?
In order to rebut my earlier comment on their lack of originality, I must admit that they can go overboard when it suits them. Recently, when our government called on us to clap and beat ‘thalis’ together, they responded with great vigour. To the beat of clapping and thali-banging, they added loud music, danced a lusty ‘Bhangra’, keeping time with the beats with clapping and great footwork. I tell you it was awesome!
And on the second event, when it was extolled that at nine minutes past nine at night, we should all put off all lights, and light ‘diyas’ instead, their response was truly wonderful. ( Though I would call it terrible and horrible and insensitive). The Bhabhis and Aunties turned it on its head to a “Jago” celebration. Think two leading ladies of the ‘Jago’ group with round trays on their upturned palms, with lighted lamps on them, singing loudly to the refrain of “ Go, Corona, Go!” and several Bhabhis with brass pots on their heads, dancing, with the delicate flames of their ‘diyas’ swinging. One pretty damsel with a Dhol around her neck with another keeping beat with a spoon, the air rent with sounds of “Dhann-Chak, Dhann-Chak, Dhann Dhann-Chak Chak, the whole group thus strutting through the whole neighbourhood, what a scream!
Then there was the joint singing by the crowd,
“Shoo Corona Shoo Shoo
Shoo away, now that it is “Jago’ time
Go and pick on Pakistan, here it is ‘Jago’ time
Hindu- Muslim here are one, it is ‘Jago’ time
Shoo Corona Shoo Shoo, here it is “jago’ time.
It was like, come hell or high water, Coronavirus or Lockdown, our songs will have the refrain of Hindu-Muslim and Pakistan, period!
Now dare I say that we lack originality or creativity. All the uncles and the young men are not to be left behind. They set off a cacophony of huge bangers and decorative rockets in the sky, lighting it up with colourful fireworks. They say pollution is down these days, but here we are celebrating Diwali. The breeze too is stunned to a faint stillness, in which the diyas gingerly blink. The men gradually sauntered into their homes, and, sipping a quick Scotch or Single Malt, equally casually came out, munching a snack and wiping their mouths.
“Come on, light it up, light up the whole carton, let’s f**k the life out of the Corona today.” Whatever happened to poor Corona, we turned one event into a ‘Ladies Sangeet’ and the other into a wedding ceremony, with similar crowds and similar exhilaration and gusto.
To tell the truth, dear brother, Corona cannot even come close to harming us, this is a ‘Posh’ colony where the cream of the city lives. All here are in big business or high posts, the Lockdown only favoured them as their incomes multiplied as never before.
Now I am addressing you all, all, not just the ladies or uncles, or the young folks, frankly after my second large peg I become quite vocal. I just mean that please rest assured, apart from shooing away the Corona, in our colony, the very next day after the Lockdown was announced, the names and phone numbers of the home-delivery guys were shared with us on WhatsApp. Groceries, pharmacy, vegetables fruits etc., it was that quick!
If any supply shows laxity, then, you do know, we all are on Twitter too, and on Twitter, as they say, a drop of poo makes the whole site stink. We have the marvel of Twitter, we are powerful, and eager fore more. But sir, there is a paucity of original ideas. In sobriety we are totally blank, after a drink or two we do manage some smart thinking, but then the corruption in our offices and the stinginess of our wives, restrains us.
Forget the office, my niggardly wife buys me branded shirts at a 50% discount for Rs. 7,000/- and is very pleased, while my office clerk gets a similar shirt from an ordinary shop for Rs. 650/-.
But the other day when the discussions began, my wife left me and sided with that High-fi Aunty for a measly fifty rupees. She did not realise, did not bother that she had trashed my absolutely brave new idea.
Last night a message was circulated on our WhatsApps. It was not about any national exigency, but that a plan had to be made to compliment the sanitary workers of our lane, and proposals were solicited as to how to go about it. This was a group of just seven or eight families, and we were meeting frequently anyways, shuffling out on the street when bored, or on hearing a new sound, and we’d be gossiping too. But now all news, happy or sad, birth or death, all were shared on WhatsApp, and condolences and congratulations too offered the same way.
Still, I attended the physical meeting and suggested that we collect a certain amount of money from every family, put it in a nice envelope and gift it to the workers gracefully. I mean the Lockdown may have got us a lot of enjoyment and merriment, but these workers were missing out on their regular income. After sweeping the lane and carting away the garbage, these people would take up part time jobs, like cleaning and mopping, to supplement their incomes. So this would give them some financial assistance.
At once I got a rejoinder, “ Sorry sir, I beg to differ. That help we can give them any time, but this event is meant to boost their morale, and in these tough times it is important to keep the morale high.”
“So what should be done, Maám?” someone asked.
“ We shall garland them with fresh flowers, marigolds and roses, and felicitate them.”
“But you cannot get fresh flowers. Markets are shut, weddings, celebrations, temples, all are closed in the Lockdown. Don’t you watch the news? Farmers who grew flowers are in doldrums and disaster.” I informed the already informed. Ha!
“I will arrange,” one officer announced confidently. I have the contact number of a florist. I shall talk to the constable at the Sadar Thana, who will escort him to the farm, and he can pluck fresh flowers and even string the garlands. The farmers may be missing out, but a few scattered old and new flowers can surely be managed. We won’t even spend a penny. Ha-Ha-Ha…..” he laughed triumphantly. “Ha-Ha-Ha……” I matched my woeful laugh to his, and in my mind I hurled not one, but thousands of abuses to an imaginary offender.
The day, date and time was then decided, and one senior lady was appointed the duty of informing the workers too. On a day before the event, she told them, “ Please wear some decent clothes tomorrow, we are going to acknowledge and appreciate you, and pay you due respects.”
“But Bibiji, these are the only clothes we have.”
“Okay, then scrub and wash them a bit.”
“We work all day, in the evening it is too late to wash and dry our clothes.”
And the frustrated Aunty muttered, “No hope!”
But her job of inviting them was done.
The next morning, according to plan, one person made them all sanitise their hands. Then the oldest woman among the workers, whom everyone called “Taayi”, was called and our dear ‘Aunty’ put a garland around her neck, the same Aunty who had never given a cup of tea to any of these workers, even if requested, always using the same excuse, “ The milk supply has not yet come.”
Then, taking turns, every one put garlands round their necks, of dull and wilting flowers, but that didn’t bother us, it would not affect the picture quality of mobile phone snaps, and any way, we had Photoshop at our disposal. Pics and videos were shot from every angle, and thus, in a few minutes, the whole programme was completed.
Excited and full of vainglorious self acclaim, we stood in a group scanning the phones for share-worthy photos, and brightening them.
My attention and my ears though, were attuned to the poor workers walking away from the scene. Shoveling the garbage with metal dust plates in both her hands, one woman worker’s garland kept getting tangled with the handles. Irritated by it she asked Taayi, “ Eh Taayi, what do I do with these now?” pointing to the flowers.
Casually Taayi replied, “ Dump them in the cart”.
Then all of them pulled out their garlands and threw them in with the garbage, and moved on.
We were still making up our minds about which pictures should be posted on the social media.
Glossary: “Jago” (a bubbly and joyous pre wedding event in Punjab)
Also read, Poems by Chandrakant Devtale, translated from Punjabi by Satbir Chadha, and published in The Antonym.
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