The Government Job

It’s a cold winter morning and the dense fog shrouds the atmosphere creating little visibility, as the lone pedestrian makes a hurried walk down the alley. The spine chilling wind has kept the morning joggers from venturing outside. Our old little lady, Nagamma, makes her way through the sidewalks of the dusty street. She looks rugged, the dark tanned skin decorated with wrinkles, seems to have hardened with time. Her attire is a patchwork of sorts; a worn-out old fashioned sari, a cut-piece of an old towel being used as a headscarf and a buttonless sweater held together by safety pins, adorns her skeletal self. A frail body, a rusted soul, a determined thought-that’s Nagamma for you.

The heavy winds that brought along dunes of dust have dirtied an otherwise well-tarred road. The bright red flowers of the gulmohar tree lay freely scattered on the dusty street, unable to tolerate the ‘torture’ of the merciless northwest winds that has been wrecking havoc since the previous night, signaling an imminent cyclone.

Unmindful of the weather, she steadily paces her aged legs to get to work. She has been doing this for more than two decades that she cares little for the vengeance of nature. “ I have seen it all “, she tells herself .The mind is firm at accomplishing the task, while the body seems to give in, that she slows down at the corner of the street , gasping for breath. Nevertheless she continues her journey to the destination, the 80 Feet Main Road.

As she makes her way through the dingy by-lane, she fumbles over a log of wood, cutting the strap of her pensioned rubber slippers. Annoyed at the timing of the little mishap, she picks the slipper and begins a cobbler’s job of pinning back the strap with a safety pin that was conveniently pulled off from the sweater. She has little time to blink. When life leaves you with little choice, you learn to accept it!

She steadily makes her way to 80 feet road, oblivious of the gradually growing crowd. The ‘illegal teashop’ owner, who prides at having encroached the footpath, welcomes her with a smile. On his ‘steel box’ tea shop, hangs a court stay order preventing the authorities from razing his business. She reciprocates his presence and moves to pick her paraphernalia- Brooms of varied sizes and a plastic bucket to collect the waste.

She has been a sweeper with the local corporation for the last decade, cleaning the streets for a living. The broom and the bucket have been her only constant companions all these years.

The broom has today become the symbol of a political revolution, a metaphor to cleanse corruption, but have we ever wondered of people who really wield the broom for a living, who hold it not as a symbol of protest, but as a means to survival. More often such souls are never heard. “You need someone to do it “, is an accepted norm and people like Nagamma exist to worship it as a means to their livelihood.

’ It’s a government job’; she would tell her detractors in order to mitigate the criticism.

The fact however remained that she was a daily wage worker who began her career at Rs 30 a day, and today after years of service and seniority drew a salary of Rs 75 a day. Her younger colleagues who had recently joined the workforce at a salary of Rs 70 a day envied her, often grumbling in her absence. None of her colleagues remained in the ‘organization’ for long. They would often get better offers of being cleaners at some corporate office, where the salary and perks were relatively astronomical. Age was against her. Nobody wanted an old sweeper!

It’s 7.10a.m when she gets to work, ten minutes behind schedule and the traffic had steadily begun to grow. She has a daunting task of cleaning the slushy main street in another 30 minutes before she could proceed to the colony. Her anxiety grows. The wrath of nature had only compounded her problems. “ It’s difficult to clean “, she murmurs, as the broom makes a first sweep. The wet mixture of dust and leaves remain glued to the broom that she bends down to analyse the nature of dirt and then decides to shift to a longer one. 10 minutes on, she had covered about half the stretch and seemed satisfied with her work.

Nagamma continued her monotonous task, only to wilt in pain. Her chronic back pain had announced it’s arrival, at the most importunate moment. She’s been persisting with this inexcusable pain for the last 5 years. The dividend of a demanding job! For three years, she stayed away from the sight of a doctor until one day she was’nt able to drag herself to work. The doctors had advised her complete rest, warning her of irreparable damage if the condition aggravated. Little did she heed to their advice, little could she care for those concerned voices. A job was her only means of survival.

Unable to swallow the pain, she slowly moved to the sidewalks to rest her ailing back. All along she remained worried of the contractor who would arrive for inspection. Only his mark of approval would fetch her the day’s pay. She sat on the footpath cursing her fate. At an age where she had to remain indoors fondling her grandchildren, she was on the street struggling for survival.

While family can be your strength, they sometimes are non-existent. Nagamma’s husband Rudraih expired a year ago. While he lived, he loved the bottle, which took its toll on his liver. Her son Kumar had outgrown his age that he didn’t find it necessary to take care of his ageing mother. He would make an occasional visit, and the dutiful mother would throw a lavish spread, to appease the ‘visiting deity’ and offer him ‘putra dakshina’, often exhausting the savings she had gathered over the weeks. He cared little for his mother, but for her, he was a reason for survival. In moments of loneliness, she would silently sob, cursing her fate and hoping the almighty took pity on her and put an end to this meaningless existence. But life is all about a hope and a dream , and she too nurtured one- a hope that her son would turn responsible and a dream of leading a peaceful retired life.

With the burden of these thoughts and an unaccomplished task at hand, she again slowly stepped on to the street that she no sooner fell with a huge thud. For a few moments, she was transported to a dark unknown world of blankness. The world had come to a standstill, there was peace beyond pain, a moment of unknown bliss where the soul seemed to separate from the body and the world was non-existent. She lay blank on the dusty street.

A sudden rush of noises slowly pierced her ears. A splash of water brought back sanity to the surroundings. She was pulled back to the world of pain and realization. The little crowd that had gathered sighed in relief as Nagamma tried to muster her strength to rise from the street. As she tried to stretch her legs, there was blood oozing off her knees . In pain she sat on the street. The crowd carried her to the footpath. The hands were bruised; blood flowing down her temples and the dust on the street had embraced her sweater. From the little she could gather, it was a brash motorcyclist who had jolted her senses and sped away into eternity. She projected a brave face, comforting the crowd. Few moments later, the crowd had dispersed leaving her alone.

She sat on the footpath, concealing her tears of pain and misery. The work had to still happen, she needed the money. She had to sweep the road, there was little choice. She rose with immense pain and limped a few steps towards the broom. As she looked up, she remained dazed at the sight of the waste bucket being emptied on the street. The entire contents of accumulated filth lay scattered. The heavy breeze was blowing away the dust in all directions .Her entire work was undone by an irresponsible rogue who had sped away without a tinge of concern. Tears failed to hold back, she wept silently as the noisy vehicles descended on the street. She slowly limped to the bucket and again began her monotonous task of gathering the dirt. With every sweep, drops of tears gelled with the waste particles to become one with it.

She cursed herself for having survived the accident. She for once wished that she were transported into the world of eternity forever. All along the broom stroked the street.She had to survive till she breathed her last and the ‘Government Job ‘ was her only means to do it..

Our world is filled with such resilient lives that wage a mighty battle for survival. They are all around us and yet appear invisible. Atleast acknowledge their presence, if not support their cause.