Shanti grinned and shook her head. Mohammad Ali gestured Asrar to accompany Shanti to her bed.

3

For Want of a Voice, in Answer of My Own

(Mein Ab Sada Ke Sile Mein Koe Sada Chahun)

Asrar held his second month’s salary in his hand. The notes reminded him that two and a half months had passed in the kholi so quickly that he didn’t even realize it. He decided to take two days off and visit his village. He shared this desire with Mohammad Ali, who took permission from Moosa Patel and Asrar got the leave approved for Monday and Tuesday. He decided to go to Ratnagiri on Saturday evening by train.

In the two months that Asrar had spent in Mumbai, he had tried understanding and adjusting to the culture and chaos of the city. Sunday being a holiday, he spent it on recreation and visiting the houses of his fellow villagers who lived in Mumbai with his friends. Now he knew places like Churchgate, VT, Haji Ali, Dadar, Andheri, Malad, Borivali, Mumbra and surrounding areas. He had seen these places innumerable times. He was well acquainted with the routine and weekend schedules of Mumbaikars. He also knew the dressing styles and cultures of the people and communities who came from various Indian states to find employment there.

One day he read a few pages from Haider’s textbook. He really liked this paragraph from the book:

Mumbai is a magical city. Time passes in its lap without being noticed and without much realization. Mumbai swallows up days. Years pass by and suddenly the people wake up only to ponder where years of their lives had vanished. The morning sun rises and then the evening arrives, so do weeks, months and then salaries. Morning happens again, followed by evening, a year and then many years. Salaries happen and in want of these salaries, lives are spent. Mumbai eats life like rust. It can be said that a person transforms into a prostitute in Mumbai. One can earn as much as they want to spend, they can be as successful as the hard work they put in. Mumbai is a well. It quenches all thirsts. It is true that so many simply drown in this well. It won’t be wrong to say that Mumbai turns a person into that hungry whore who becomes a victim of Aids and proceeds towards a painful death. Mumbai is as benevolent as cruel and indifferent. Mumbai does not have a single face, a single identity. All faces and identities that belong to her are false. It has no face, no identity. Mumbai is a mirage.

He read this paragraph over and over again, and pondered over it.

There were two days left to go to the village.