Her bedroom window opened to the view of the Mahatma Phule Municipal Gardens, an oasis of serenity amidst the cacophony of the bustling city. The park was dotted with beautiful gulmohar trees and bougainvillea vines and had a lush rose garden with an ornate water fountain in the middle that never seemed to work. Dusty wooden benches and overflowing garbage cans lined a stone path that crisscrossed the park. On the far end was a small area for children with a rickety swing set, a couple of see saws, a rusty slide and a twisted jungle gym. It was just past noon and the park was deserted, except for a homeless person taking a nap on one of the benches in the shade.
The hot and humid weather was lulling her into sleep as well, but she tried to stay focused on the people walking by Clare Road, just beyond the park. This was the route the postman took and for the past few days she had been anxiously waiting for him to deliver a money order from her husband. It usually arrived within the first week of the month but it was nearing the tenth and she was getting impatient. Zanu and Ali had not been paid in a few months, the grocer had threatened to stop the rations of kerosene and sugar and the milkman and bhajiwali knocked on her door every day demanding past dues.
Meanwhile Wasim had got this foolish idea in his head of going to Germany to pursue his education. How were they going to pay for that? And why Germany? He didn’t know the language, the people and God knows what heathen food they ate there. Were there any Muslims in Germany, she wondered. Even if there were a few, the Nazis would surely have killed them all, like they killed the Jews, she thought. He’ll get over it, she consoled herself; all she had to do was find him a nice girl and get him married.
But before his marriage, she had to first find suitors for her two eldest daughters. There had been several proposals but they were usually from uneducated village louts or older men who had recently been widowed or were looking for a younger bride to fill their quota of four. She never quite understood how men, incapable of being responsible for a single household thought that they could handle four. She knew the Quran provided the allowance, but that was for a time of war with widows of martyrs seeking security and protection, she reasoned, not an excuse to satisfy the lust of rabid old men. There were many things she didn’t understand in the Quran, but who was she to question God’s word. Allah-hu-alam.
A loud knock on the door woke her up. She didn’t know when she had fallen asleep or for how long. Maybe the money order had finally arrived. She hurried to the door, but Zanu had already opened it, and it wasn’t the postman.
A big, burly man stood in the door, breathing heavily and sweating profusely. On seeing her, he raised his index finger with great effort indicating he needed a moment to gather himself. He looked like he was about to collapse.
“Zanu, go get some water,” she said, and guided the man to a chair on the balcony.
The man collapsed on the chair and drank the glass of water in huge gulps. He pulled out a handkerchief, wiped the sweat of his brow and took several deep breaths.
“Whew!” he exclaimed, “four floors. I am getting too old for this.”
“Do you want some tea?” she asked.
“Uh, no. Thank you,” he replied, taken aback by her generosity.
“Everyone wants tea,” she said and asked Zanu to go make some.
“Well,” the man continued, “I am sorry, but I come bearing bad news.”
“Oh no,” she shrieked, ” who died?”
“No, no, no. No one died. No. I am from the Municipality. Taxes.”
“Taxes?” she asked, surprised.
Apparently when Mushir Bhai had left the country he owed several hundred rupees in property taxes. Mr. Baldev Sethi was here to give her a three month notice before official eviction proceedings would begin. Sipping his tea and devouring some home made cookies she had made earlier, they discussed her current monetary crisis and alternatives to forestall the eviction. He recommended filing a petition for an installment program and assured her that he would help with it, but she needed to ensure that the payments were made on time.
“There is only so much I can do Memsaheb, I am just a Government employee,” he said almost apologetically.
He also talked about his family in Patiala, and of how he missed them, and the mustard fields and the thick sweet lassi that was so much creamier and flavorful than the watered down white cow piss that they served in Bombay. And while he rambled on and on she kept peering over his shoulder to see if the postman had come, but no postman came that day. Just another debtor who threatened to throw her and her children out on the street.
That evening she prayed her Fard prayers, and Sunnah and Nifal. She woke up in the middle of the night and prayed eleven rakats of Tahajjud. She felt she needed some divine help. She felt she deserved a break. She was looking for a sign to let him know that she was on the right path, that things would soon take a turn for the better.
The lone bulb in her bedroom began to flicker. She stared at it like a moth drawn to a flame and just like that, the light from the sputtering bulb went dark. She dug her face into her pillow and cried herself to sleep.