Two Queues
in Paradise
That
day the queue stretches out for about a kilometer and a half.
‘That’s
not bad! Last time we came, it went past the passport office place and all the
way down Kanatte road.’
‘My
God, really? What - about hundred cars?’
‘Mad?
Easily two hundred.’
Her
eyes widen, and her lips, full and pink, form a perfect ‘O’.
He wishes
he had more interesting queue facts to tell her so that he could see those lips
forming that ‘O’ shape again.
They
had met while waiting in queues.
He in
his employer’s chocolate-brown Kia, with its fuel tank needle hovering just
above the ‘E’ mark. With petrol being issued in unpredictable spurts, Chandu
Sir, his boss, said it was better just to stay put in one queue rather than
burn the precious liquid driving around the city searching for petrol sheds with
shorter queues. This time around, the situation was far worse than the last
time they filled the tank up. Then, the government had just received a credit
line from India and spent most of it on petrol and diesel.
‘At
some point a bowser will unload here. Till then, you just park and wait.’ Those
were Chandu Sir’s words to him when he saw him last.
Actually,
he didn’t mind. It was better than driving Chandu Sir’s wife, Swarna Madam, around
Colombo, parking in gigantic shopping mall basement car parks waiting
interminably for her to finish her shopping or her gym workout or meeting her
friends, an equally rich group of women who seemed to have nothing better to do.
He hated that because he invariably got lost in those underground mazes and
received a tongue-lashing from her because he failed to pick her up either at
the precise moment she emerged, or at the exact exit, A, B, C or D or whatever,
laden with bags labelled with famous designer’s names. He winced as he
remembered how once, desperate for a pee, he left the car to hunt for a toilet,
to find that he had left his mobile behind in the car and upon his return there
had been no less than eight missed calls from her. Although, he had to admit,
with the recent fuel shortages and the looming economic crisis, her shopping
expeditions had been somewhat curtailed, if only because Chandu Sir seemed to
be keeping a strict eye on the usage of petrol by the two vehicles he owned : the
Kia, and of course, the BMW that only he (Chandu Sir) drove.
She is
queueing to obtain a passport. The passport office is situated right behind the
petrol shed and it was inevitable that the two snaking queues would run
parallel for at least part of their courses. And now, with the office closed
for the night and no petrol being issued at the shed, the movement of both
queues had ground to halt.
Cyprus.
That’s where she had set her sights. He doesn’t even know where Cyprus is, only
that it isn’t in the Middle East – or is it? He isn’t sure and doesn’t like to
ask, in case she thinks he is ignorant. He can’t remember ever learning about
Cyprus at school. From what she says, it seems like a paradise. Can’t be, of
course. What could be better than this luscious green country that is their
home? He sighs. But that was before all these problems, of course. Things have
changed now. But surely, the situation can only get better? It can’t get worse
than this, right? There are still millions of his countrymen and women who
believe that. Otherwise, everyone
would want to leave! He looks at the queue winding around the passport office
building and disappearing into the darkness. Although, now, it does look as if
everyone is leaving. She, along with
thousands of others, who are in search of a new, better life. A life where you
didn’t have to wait in line for hours ˗ sometimes days ˗ to obtain a cylinder
of cooking gas to prepare meals for her mother and brothers. A life where a
kilogram of rice didn’t cost a third of her mother’s daily wage as a cleaner. A
life where people didn’t drop dead while standing for hours, can in hand, to buy
a litre of kerosene. She explains all this to him while they squat side by side
on the edge of the hard, concrete pavement next to the Kia.
So,
she is queueing to avoid queues, he thinks to himself, but avoids saying it out
aloud. She wouldn’t appreciate the irony. Personally, he thinks she is mad.
Leaving her family behind to travel thousands of miles to work as what - a
housemaid? A cleaner? Not knowing what might lie ahead, or whom she would end
up working for. He thinks of the little cubicle with the foldable camp bed that
is his lodgings. He is lucky to have a place to stay in Colombo completely rent-free.
Chandu Sir had been kind enough to convert the old store room into a makeshift
bedroom, the only hitch being having to share a bathroom with the crotchety old
crone who functioned as the cook. And getting meals also.
But doesn’t
he want to escape all this, she asks him, like the hundreds who turned up before
the dawn broke that day to stand in line to hand over applications for new
passports. He explains that he has a good job, he’s paid fifty thousand a month
in addition to getting free accommodation and food. He didn’t really have a
problem with gas or kerosene or things like that because his employer took care
of him.
But
what happens when you get married and start a family, she asks. Then you will
have to provide for them, see that your wife has enough provisions to prepare
meals, see that your children have a way of getting to school. Can you do that
with salary you are being paid now? He isn’t really concentrating on her questions,
for at the mention of the words ‘family’ and ‘wife’ he immediately imagines
starting a family with her and that sends
his thoughts hurtling in unexpected directions.
What is
he thinking? Of course it could never happen. Not with her being thousands of
miles away in a strange country and him stuck in Colombo, behind the wheel of
the Kia. It’s just his luck. Finally meeting a girl he even half-considers
spending the rest of his life with, to find she is on her way out of the
country.
Of
course, if she were to abandon her dream to work in Cyprus and come and work
with him, in Chandu Sir’s house… Swarna Madam had mentioned something about wanting
someone to help with the housework, because Agnes the old crone was now past it.
Of course he couldn’t say that to her. Not after just meeting her and talking
to her for less than an hour. He didn’t really know her well enough for that. But how he wanted to! He could just picture
her in his little cubicle.
Now,
if they were a couple it would work out just fine, him being the driver and her
working in the house. They would have to get a bigger bed of course. He blushes
at the thought, and turns his face away so she doesn’t notice. As if she would
have! It’s a dark moonless night and the only illumination comes from the dim street
lights that dot the road behind the passport office at infrequent intervals.
He
does mention it to her. After they talk for what seems like hours but when he
checks his watch, it’s just ninety minutes. About their families, the schools
they had been to, her best friend Dilki who’s already in Cyprus, sending back 80k
a month to her family. It was this Dilki who had put the idea into her head,
obviously, he thinks, taking a violent dislike to the unknown friend who was
responsible for taking this angel away, far away from him.
He shakes
himself. He must be going mad. What’s the point of taking his frustration out on
this distant friend of hers? It is then that he tells her what Swarna Madam
said, that she was looking for someone, someone to do some housework, take care
of the washing and the ironing. Someone reliable and trustworthy. (Not even to
do the washing themselves, there was a washing machine for that of course. Just
to take the clothes out and hang them out to dry. How easy was that!) It is
just the two of them, he says, the couple. The son is in university in
Australia and comes back once a year for the holidays. And even then the boy is
out of the house most of the time. He doesn’t say anything about Swarna Madam
being a right old bitch, of course. Deep in his heart he actually imagines that
his offer would sway her. Madness, of course. She has only one thing on her
mind. And that is, to get out of this country as fast as possible.
He
observes her slight figure and slim arms from the corner of his eye. Would she
be able to cope with whatever job she landed, he worries. Some of these places
were known to treat their employees almost like slaves, he had heard.
The
smell of food ˗ fried onions ˗ wafts through his nostrils. A cart trundles
their way.
Something
to eat? He gets to his feet slowly, joints stiff after sitting crouched like
that for so long. Without thinking, he extends his hand to her and she places
hers in his as if it is the most natural thing in the world.
He feels
it then, the electricity. The tingling current that starts in his hand and
shoots straight to his heart and then… to other parts of his body.
He
pulls her to her feet and she jumps up, laughing. He is still distracted by what
he just felt. Was that… love? Or what? Could you just fall in love like that,
on a gloomy moonless night, looking at your worst, on a crowded pavement
littered with sleeping bodies and empty Milo cartons? With someone you just met
two hours ago? And whose face you could hardly see in the darkness?
I
wouldn’t mind, she says. I did bring some food but I can give it my aunt. She
gestures at a sleeping figure stretched out on a rolled out mat close by.
You
brought mats?
Yes of
course. We heard that we would have to be here all night.
They
walk to the food cart. She’s vegetarian, she tells him, and insists on prising
the fried prawn off the vadé before eating it. She offers it to him, laughing. Here, an
extra prawn for you. She insists on paying for her share of the food. He is surprised.
Most of the girls he knows would have been happy to just let the man pay.
Was
she also feeling it, he wonders, as they munch on the vadés, leaning against the Kia. This warm glow that drove away the
tiredness, the boredom, that staying in these unending queues usually entailed.
He wouldn’t mind if the petrol bowser never turned up. Or if the passport
office never opened its doors in the morning.
But of
course they do. The bowser arrives first, and word passes down the queue. The
weary drivers rub their bleary eyes, start up their vehicles, and the queue
inches forward slowly. But not before they exchange telephone numbers and make
a tentative plan to meet up again. When – say in a week’s time? Where? At the
bakery opposite the petrol shed, perhaps? The short eats were known to be tasty
and there was a private area upstairs where they could chat undisturbed. You
could order your food from a menu like in a posh restaurant. Awkwardly, they
say goodbye, and in the rearview mirror he glimpses her as the Kia slowly moves
up the queue in the dim glow of dawn. She lifts a hand and waves. He waves
back, unable to explain the feeling of absolute desolation that comes over him
as her figure grows smaller and is swallowed in the crowd that is now stirring.
*
The
walls of the room upstairs in the bakery are painted a garish red. It is
occupied by a group of noisy youngsters, but fortunately they have just
finished eating and they leave.
Would
she come? His fingers tap the blue plastic folder on the table in front of him like
a drum. He thinks about what he is going to say to her when she turns up. If she turns up of course! How long should
he wait for her?
The
waitress flings a menu onto the table, pulls out a notebook.
He
tells her he is waiting for a friend. She nods. Okay, I’ll come back in a little
while.
He
glances through the menu. It looks tempting. There are colour photographs of
the food items. There’s plenty of
vegetarian options also.
Sorry,
it was so hard to get a three-wheeler! I’m late, I know.
He
looks up and there she is. His heart sings. She came! In the bright light of
day she looks different from that night. Her eyes are closer together than he
remembers, and he notices a sprinkling of pimples on her cheeks. But he is still glad that he made this
decision.
No
problem. He stands, waits till she is seated, sits down again.
She
looks at him shyly, asks how he got here. In your boss’s car?
He
shakes his head. No, I also took a three-wheeler.
She
nods. Of course. I’m sure he doesn’t let
you use it for your personal trips.
Now is
the time to tell her. He takes a deep breath.
No.
That’s the thing. There’s no car now.
She
looks at him, puzzled. No car? But you were driving it, no? That day in the
queue.
He
leans forward. There’s no car now because I don’t work for them anymore.
Her
hand flies to her mouth. What do you mean?
I quit!
I got fed up with that woman. His wife. Always shouting at me. That day. After queueing
for so long. Yelled at me because she couldn’t go for her morning yoga class. I
had enough.
But
what are you going to do?
I’m
coming also.
Coming
where?
To
Cyprus! With you. He pushes the folder forward. I’ve done the application. I’ll
hand it in tomorrow.
You
gave up your job?
They
have plenty of vacancies for drivers. I checked. You just have to do a driving
test there. There’s this agent. I have some savings, I can pay him-
He breaks
off, looking at her face. I thought you
would be happy. You were telling me I should also apply.
She shakes her head. When she speaks
next, her voice trembles. I failed my medical.. the blood tests. There was a
problem. My blood counts. They can treat it but it will take a few months. I’ll
have to repeat the medical and try again… I don’t know what I’ll do now. I need
to start working as soon as possible. My mother hasn’t been able to go to work
because of the petrol shortage.
She looks
him in the eye. l thought I can come and work with you. Help your madam with
the washing and ironing… you said…
But ˗ you said you didn’t want to stay in this
country… Cyprus is like a paradise…
And
you said… her voice trails off.
The
waitress comes up to the table, flips a few pages of a notebook and takes a
pencil out of her pocket.
They
turn their heads, look at her.
So, are
you ready to order? What do you want?
They stare
at her in silence.
Carmel Miranda / Aug 31 2024
