Anosh Irani - The Parcel

U nderwear Tree had its name thanks to the array of underclothes that were left to hang and dry in its loving care. It was one giant hanger for clothes, a dhobis delight. At any time of day, underwear in all shapes and sizes were caught in its branches like kites. Over the years, Underwear Tree served as a barometer for economic growth. If the elastic of the underwear was tight, it signified that the people living in the hutments below the tree were doing well. If the elastic was loose, it meant overuse for the underwear and hard days for the owners.

As Madhu looked up, she could see that the underwear that lay stiff in the morning sun was somewhere in between. Things could go either way from here. She, on the other hand, had only one place to go: Bombay Central for her daily bread and butter, and an array of abuses. But before going to work, she, as always, called upon that brave Maratha warrior Shivaji to kick-start her day as she inhaled his majestic beedis.

She sent the smoke skyward, toward the pride of her neighbourhood, until she tasted the last bitter hit. That final trace of tobacco surging through her brain was what she enjoyed the most. Before flicking the beedi away, she burned a hole in the fabric of her sari with the lit end.

It was a habit to rid her of anxiety; she also did it for luck.

She smiled as the beedi disappeared into a gutter. Even dead cigarettes wanted to get away from her as soon as possible.

No shirt, no pants, no tie, but she was an office-goer like any other Mumbaikar. Her working space was in the most prime location. Bombay Central was her terrain, and she had worked it more than any other hijra in the city. It was her designated area. Only a few hijras, from her clan, had the right to beg here. Any infringement from an outside hijra. and Madhu would push a bamboo up her arse so deep, if she were to lift the bamboo to the sky it would become a flaga trespassing hijra in a flowing sari hoisted among the clouds, singing in pain.

How she wished she had the strength to do that.

At forty, she was weak, her muscles looser than they had ever been, her belly resembling a hot-water bag, bulgy and changing shape without warning. The only thing she was capable of lifting was her middle finger. She showed it to passengers in cabs every single day.

Only in her mind.

She had to respect the passengers. They were allowed to abuse her, but she could not abuse back. That was a hijra rule.