Johny TakkedasilaThe rent for the house hasn’t been paid for five months; at least half of the amount should be paid. We’re also facing troubles at home,’ said the owner of the house to Rajeshwari.
Rajeshwari replied, ‘My salary hasn’t been disbursed yet. I’ll pay the amount as soon as I receive it.’
‘Even if the salary has not been paid for five months, you can call home and ask for money! Everyone is being paid half salary. Why haven’t you been paid?’ the house owner asked Rajeshwari.
‘Our shop is small, and business is slow. That’s why they are unable to pay salaries. The boss mentioned that salaries will be paid within two days. I’ll pay the rent as soon as I receive my salary,’ said Rajeshwari.
‘Please give us a couple of months’ rent. We have no money for household expenses, and my husband isn’t working either. Who will provide for us? If we get this rent, at least we can eat. Otherwise, we’ll have to go hungry,’ the owner said as she covered her face with a saree and left.
My name is Rajeshwari, 28 years old, still unmarried. Not by choice, but my parents weren’t strong enough to arrange my marriage.
My mother tried hard to get me married anyway. All those who came to look after me used to say, ‘The girl is nice, but at least ten tolas of gold should be given to your daughter as dowry.’ After considering ten such proposals, I decided not to get married.
I’m from Kadiri in the Anantapur district. I used to sell vegetables along with my parents. Now, due to COVID-19, I’ve stopped selling vegetables. Even though my mother continued to sell, her sales have dropped significantly due to her contracting the virus. Due to this pandemic, not wanting to be idle, I went to Bangalore in search of work.
Finding a job wasn’t easy. After three months of searching, I finally got a job as a salesgirl in a clothing store, earning a monthly salary of seven thousand rupees. I would send four thousand home, keeping only three thousand for myself. It wasn’t sufficient, but I managed with what I had.
I met Hemant after coming here; he used to work in our shop. He seemed nice and had good looks. We shared our problems, our family situations, and why I wasn’t married yet. Our conversations were open and candid, although they never turned into a romantic relationship.
One day, Hemant visited my house. He didn’t express love for me, but he mentioned how beautiful I was. Our relationship evolved into him visiting my rented house and occasionally giving me a thousand or two thousand rupees.
I’m unsure what to call our relationship. Hemant introduced his friend to me, and I slept with him as well. Hemant would bring those men to my place, and I was paid for it. Slowly, I became involved in this without realizing it, to earn money. However, I never engaged in a loving relationship with Hemant.
Days went by, and Hemant eventually got married and had two children. The flow of clients slowed during the pandemic, and the money I earned dropped significantly. I asked Hemant for financial help twice, and he sent me four thousand rupees each time. But afterwards, I didn’t ask again, knowing that his financial situation was also precarious.
Nobody was coming to me due to the pandemic. No one has money after this corona. I do not understand how to live. The government is putting thousands of money in everyone’s accounts. They don’t care about people like us. No one is supporting people like us who came here because they couldn’t live in the village and ended up in the den of prostitutes. If we also have some business, we will live with dignity. In this situation, my thoughts were interrupted by a phone call.
‘Hello, who’s this?’
‘Remember me, Srinivas? We met before in an OYO room.’
‘I met many people, but I can’t remember. What’s the matter?’
‘I want to meet you. How much will you charge?’
‘Give as much as before.’
‘Well, there’s a pandemic now. We have to take risks. Many people must not be approaching you.’
‘As much risk as you’re taking, I’m taking the same risk. Book an OYO room and send me the address.’
‘I’ll pay you three thousand.’
‘Alright, but also arrange for a cab and text me the details.’
***
Srinivas arrived at the OYO room. He paid me three thousand rupees. Afterwards, I used two thousand to pay my house rent and spent the remaining thousand on rice and vegetables. I lay down on the bed, feeling sad about not being able to send money home.
Around six in the evening, I tried to get up, but my body didn’t cooperate. Pains spread all over, my head felt heavy, and I struggled to breathe. I managed to stand and check my sense of smell. There was none. I tried smelling soap, but there was no scent. Panicking, I crushed Surf Excel powder and tried smelling it, but again, I couldn’t perceive any smell.
Trembling, I felt fear gripping me. I tried calling my mother, but there was no answer. I called repeatedly, growing impatient and returning to the bed.
I lost my appetite, and cooking seemed like an impossible task. I thought I would call my landlord and explain the situation. But when I called her and mentioned I had contracted COVID-19, she was alarmed and never contacted me again.
I spent three days alone in the house, my body and mind aching.
‘Silence gripped the house. Rajeshwari’s body lay lifeless. It wasn’t COVID-19 that took Rajeshwari’s life. It was societal apathy, exploitation by men, government negligence, the power imbalance, poverty, hunger, and a system that left them to fend for themselves.’
‘Who will stand up for the forgotten souls of society?’
