Q

 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