Chani baido, as people at the office called her, was in her early fifties. She worked as a contractual employee – impermanent tenure and minimal pay – and her tasks were to open and close the office rooms, run errands, and prepare tea for the other staff. Her husband’s earnings as a labourer were inconsistent, and couldn’t be counted upon to run the household. It was a blessing, she often told herself, that through twenty-five years of marriage, they’d had no children. How would she have fed them?
So, she considered it extremely cruel of Raj sir that he would announce in front of everyone that morning, ‘Baido, your salary is going to double from next month. That will make you happy, won’t it?’
For a few seconds her world spun and she nearly dropped the tray of teacups. As if her happiness was his concern!
‘Why make fun of us, sir?’ she said and went inside the kitchen.
The laughter behind her felt like a shower of stones. She placed the cups down noisily, so as not to hear what they were talking about, and tried to concentrate on her actions. Nima, her good friend and colleague, came in to ask what they were laughing about. She was shy and consulted Chani on all matters.
‘They have gone mad – saying our salaries will be doubled from next month!’
‘Isn’t that a great thing?’
‘It’s a lie, you idiot! They are mocking us!’
But as she sipped her tea, Chani thought what a blessing it would be if the news were true. There was her nephew’s wedding a few months away; she could also buy a heater for the winter, then new dishes, new furniture. The list of things she could buy went through her head, giving her a dim kind of pleasure. She gulped down the remaining tea and went in search of her friend whom she had scared away.
She found Nima standing in the corridor, staring at something far away. Which was but the same stale scene of the last twenty years: tall grasses growing unchecked on empty patches of land interspersed with areca nut and other trees; dull and low-built houses, sunk as if under the weight of the rain and heat the town received. Above the rusted tin roofs of the staff quarters, clouds lurked, threatening a downpour in the evening.
Chani pulled Nima down to the empty yard where they could sit and chat.
‘Where did you hear the news? About the raise in our salary?’
‘They were discussing something like that yesterday … day before yesterday. The government announced it, it seems,’ Nima answered in her slow manner.
‘Those were the exact words? That’s what you heard?’
Nima shook her head, and named Dina sir, Raj sir, and two others.
Chani couldn’t help but smile. Nima smiled too, though she looked around immediately, embarrassed.
She would repair her kitchen, Nima said, make it larger. It was a solid idea and Chani wondered whether she should do something similar – extend the kitchen, lay a concrete floor for it, also lay a concrete path to the toilet, and replace the old sheets on the roof, making her house sounder. It was from the house that her sense of well-being and completeness emanated. Of course, there would be – unavoidably – a small gathering where Jaggu and his friends would drink and chat in the front room, she hoped without quarrelling, while she and her girlfriends would soak the warmth of the fire inside the new kitchen, rubbing and tapping their feet on the new floor. They shouldn’t quarrel, that was her only worry. She had to decide whom to invite and whom to leave out.
These were her thoughts when two regular staff of the office passed by, shaking their heads and exclaiming, no, no, no, typical election gimmick. They fell silent on seeing the two women and turned the corner. Chani and Nima looked at each other, taken aback by how far they had gone in their dreams. Nima’s eyes drooped, a veil of vagueness coming over them, but Chani got up and said she would confirm once again with someone who would properly know. Like Jakap, or the Cashier babu. You go and wash the cups, she told her friend.
Jakap – taciturn, unsmiling – was a distant cousin; much younger than her. Chani claimed she had played a role in his recruitment at the office – she couldn’t exactly say what – and still felt irritated he had left without meeting her when he came the first time to submit the joining letter. She called him a younger brother whenever the topic came up, although they never had a proper conversation. Sometimes, she would rebuke him for not respecting her, to which Jakap would lean back, nod his head, and give an inscrutable smile.
‘I have seen you running naked – your face black with soot, your nose leaking. Don’t give me airs,’ she would snarl.
Respect, people had said, what was it about? You are bullying him, and without any effect, you should be proud, to which she would turn her head away. During situations when she had to ask something of him, she didn’t know how to behave, whether to demand or request, and would falter in her voice and action.
She now sat in front of him, at the very edge of the chair, ‘You have heard about the raise in our salary, haven’t you?’
Jakap barely glanced up.
‘Is it true?’
She was mesmerised by the pen moving across the white paper – such surety and confidence – and the same across the computer keyboard when he leaned to check something on the screen. Those long, clean fingers filled up blank forms, undecipherable columns, turned them into something acceptable, and marked them with a seal which he kept in a deep corner of his drawer. He had style and assurance, doubtless; no wonder a beautiful girl had married him. But in the wedding, Chani had been made to sit in a corner and told to have her food as early as possible when she hadn’t been there for even ten minutes.
He looked up finally, ‘I don’t much believe it, but it could also be true.’
‘Can you speak more clearly?’
‘It could happen, or it couldn’t,’ he smiled at her, without any affirmation. There he was, slipping away again, not meaning anything – cold and pitiless.
Doesn’t matter, Chani fumed, I will ask the Cashier babu. Never had much hopes from Jakap anyway; she only went because he would feel bad if she asked anyone else first, she told herself.
But the idea of going to the babu, the office accountant, gave her no comfort. It was the reticence, the obliqueness, the blank look he gave to all things, and then the sudden temper and sullenness. She tried hard to think tenderly of him – she being elder – but all such feelings slipped off the man’s persona – stout, hands behind his back, unsmiling face. He was someone to be placated, worshipped, or flattered with gifts. Nima told her he had taken an early leave for the day, and would have to be met at home.
*
During the lunch break, Chani called timidly at the door, ‘Babu, it’s me.’
She heard the television go silent, and then the door opened.
It was the maid, ‘Bhaiyya is not keeping well.’
‘Yes, I heard. I got these for him,’ she brought out the papayas she had plucked from her garden.
The maid turned back and Chani followed her into the house. She had to wait for some time before the babu came out, bleary-eyed. He looked at her once and shouted inside to bring glasses of water. Chani watched the water being gulped down in great gluck glucks. He then smacked his lips and burped.
She put the bag of papayas on the table, ‘Babu, I got these. I heard you were not feeling well.’
The man looked at the papayas for some time before picking them up, ‘Just a slight headache. Too much work.’
He put them back and looked outside at the verandah. How old would he be? Forty-three? Forty-four? The same age as her cousin back in the village, who had been classmates with the babu during their college days. The light from outside streamed onto his face, highlighting the pockmarks and the stubble, making him appear vulnerable. Not many have seen him like this, Chani thought.
The maid brought tea for her, and a glass of what seemed like whiskey for the babu.
‘Is that the tonic?’ Chani smiled.
‘This is the only cure sometimes,’ the babu smiled back.
She let him take a few sips before asking about the raise.
‘Some say it will happen but,’ he paused, ‘we never know.’
Chani was disappointed, ‘You have no idea too?’
He shrugged.
‘Then who would know? I asked Jakap and now you.’
The babu snorted, ‘Jakap won’t know – lives in his own world. Asked him to process a file a week back – still hasn’t done it.
‘Do advise him sometimes,’ he added. ‘He is your brother, isn’t he?’
‘Yes, yes,’ Chani leaned back on the sofa, contemplating.
‘So, who do you think will really know?’
‘About what?’
‘The pay raise?’
‘Maybe … Raj sir. He has the correct information in these matters; comes with being a sneaky character I suppose.’
The babu took another sip before speaking, ‘No one has any idea what they do – Raj sir and his friend Dina. They hide things and take away things, without any trace, without any papers. I told Jakap that such things shouldn’t be allowed to happen. At least we ought to get the system right in our own place. But, like you said, and everyone says too, Jakap is strange. Still hasn’t done those papers! If those papers were done…’ he trailed off, realising he had been rambling.
Chani didn’t understand the details but got the part about needing to remind Jakap to finish what the babu had asked. This she would do even though Jakap didn’t treat her well. And in truth, everyone took something from the office, directly or indirectly – fans, chairs, pens, cups, tea sets, and these were the small things. Everyone did it, without doubt. And so, it really wasn’t her duty to take sides. But if ever things got bad and she had to pick a side, she would be on the side of Jakap, or would want Jakap to be on her side. Why – she would at times ask herself – and would arrive at the memory of her wedding. It had been scantily attended and quickly over – like a mid-day summer rain – leaving her bereft as vapours rose from the leaves and the earth in the empty yard; and all because she was marrying a non-tribal man.
But in the morning, as her mother and other female relatives took leave of her, her mother had whispered, ‘You are still us.’
‘Are you going?’ the babu asked as she stood up.
A tenderness had hit her upon the memory of her dead mother. Things always got mixed up once that happened, so she said to him in a choked voice, ‘Take care of yourself, Babu.’
Touched, the babu came to the door, his face tender, ‘Don’t … don’t worry, Baido. I will take care of everything. Jakap is my brother too.’
And as she reached the gate, he shouted, ‘Tell that Raj I sent you … if he doesn’t help, I will deal with him.’
In the past, at times like these, when the old questions about her life, her decisions, the doubts cast by her own people reared up, she would point to the grand and beautiful things of her life. But through the years, these things changed their nature from being beautiful or ugly into things that were just there. Thus, she would regain her composure. And once she was inside her house, remnants of the putrid thoughts further lost their edge, seeping into the smooth floor she had trod upon for so many years. This was her reality – the high walls, the sturdy ceiling, the intimate rooms, the broad wooden windows. She liked it; loved it, in fact.
The rest of her noon-time routine was performed with pleasure – cooking the rice, heating the vegetables, and drinking black tea afterwards on the kitchen steps overlooking the backyard.
*
The post-lunch hours at the office were quiet, non-threatening – Raj sir hadn’t turned up – but she was kept busy nonetheless, shifting of files from one room to the other, sweeping and dusting, then one more round of tea and washing of cups. It was quite late when everyone finally left and she locked up the rooms of the offices, Nima beside her.
The evening was muggy and the sky clouded as she started towards Raj sir’s house. She had waited for Jaggu to come home, but it seemed he would be late. There was a power cut; she had to navigate the narrow road using only her phone’s torch. She thought of turning back.
At the door when she knocked, she forgot to say her name. The voice from inside was irritated, and it made her shout out her name – it’s only me, Raj sir. She heard a chair being pushed back, then footsteps. When the door opened, there was the tall frame of Raj sir occupying the doorway, but without the feeling of familiarity of the office. He peered down at her and then suddenly smiled, inviting her to come in.
Inside the drawing room, she could see pens and papers strewn about on the table. She requested that the main door be kept open, but the low evening light made no impact upon the darkness of the room. Raj sir disappeared into another room, and came out with a glass of water. He then picked up the files, pens and papers, and disappeared again. When he finally sat down opposite her, he fidgeted, adjusting his glasses now and then to look at her. It was about the pay raise, Chani said.
‘I have heard something like that,’ he said, leaning forward, ‘but even I am not sure.’
With a sudden movement, he thwacked his left arm with the right, and cursed the mosquitoes.
‘Should I close the door?’ he asked, getting up.
‘Oh no, sir,’ she stuttered. ‘I need to see my husband walk back. The house keys are with me.
‘Who can I confirm this with, then?’
Raj sir sat down.
‘Let me check on the phone; I think some notice was given to that effect.’
It felt inordinately long, Raj sir scrolling through his phone, the light of which caught in his glasses, so she couldn’t be sure whether he looked at her furtively or not.
‘If you have not found it, I will leave sir,’ she said, and got up.
But he put out a hand and turning back, shouted towards the neighbouring house, ‘Sovi sir, please come in for a while. Chani baido is here.’
A door opened, and a man appeared on the doorway of the neighbouring house wearing only a vest and lungi, ‘Who?’
‘Baido, our Chani baido. She is…’ Raj sir trailed away and told him to just come.
The rotund form of a man – so quick, so urgent – came to Raj sir’s door, peering down towards her. He sat down next to her and looked at her once again. Chani, could not recognise the man in the dark, and thought she had never seen him in the small town where most residents knew each other.
‘Our baido wants to know whether the contingency staff will get their pay raise,’ Raj sir smiled into the phone.
‘Oh definitely, definitely you will, Baido. Why not? It’s the government order. Show her the notice, sir, show her,’ he demanded.
Then turning back to her, ‘Arrey! Your salary will be doubled, the government has announced. You will have to give me a treat, at least for the news.’
Raj sir looked up from the phone, grinning from ear to ear, ‘I should get the treat first. I told it to her first, didn’t I?’
‘I will show you the notice, Baido, just wait.’
The man began to demand the phone from Raj sir, who couldn’t stop laughing, ‘Very cunning, sir, very cunning.’
Just then there was a noise from the kitchen. Raj sir jumped up and rushed into the darkness inside, followed by his neighbour, ‘It’s the damn cat again.’
Chani rushed out from the house. She opened the gate and turned to see the two figures at the door – one tall, one short – calling to her to come back, at least have tea. But she stumbled away, looking back a few times, afraid she was being followed.
Reaching her house, she pushed the door open, and rushed into the small bedroom. She had huddled down on the floor when someone opened the door – she had forgotten to lock it. A tall figure came into the room and looked down at her. Her throat went dry.
‘Why were you running and why are you sitting in the dark?’ Jaggu switched on the lights.
Relief washed over her like a summer rain.
Then taking in the brightness, the familiar objects of her house, and that hard, warm man, whom she had loved and quarrelled with for twenty-five years, she felt her eyes smarting, ‘We are getting a pay raise – do you believe it?’
*
Gankhu Sumnyan teaches English at a government college in Arunachal Pradesh. His story ‘Local’ was selected for The Best Asian Short Stories 2021 anthology by Kitaab, Singapore. Other stories, ‘Obsession,’ ‘Son of the Soil,’ and ‘Caring’, were published in Gulmohar Quarterly, East Side Story, and Cafe Dissensus respectively. His poetry book Old Friends' Parade, Writers Workshop, 2015, was shortlisted for the Satish Verma Young Writers' Award 2015.