The Garbage Collector
I'm a bit of a raging lioness when it comes to strangers; strangers who knock on doors and demand a part of my life. Like him outside. I looked through the peephole of our front door, one more time. Disheveled hair, stained teeth and shifty eyes stared back at the door. Every year I told myself I will not give in and every year, a nameless stranger broke my resolve. This time my spine would stand up for its right. The knocking persisted. Would he go way if I stood still? How do they show up on this day, every year,with uncanny precision? Why do I feel the need to justify my actions? As I stood with my back to the door, I took in our living room, with its flat TV, imported artefacts, Persian rugs and fancy lighting.I looked at him through the peephole, one last time. What exactly was I trying to prove? Did it really make a difference in my life? Will it change his? Maybe. I opened the door. He scratched his head and said, "Pongal Inaam*, Madam." I thrusted a twenty rupee note in his greasy palm and closed the door before he could thank me.
It changed nothing, except maybe an extra glass of liquor for him. Or toys for his kids, if he was in a good mood. Our streets would be as dirty as ever, until the next festival. Until something scratched the dirty palms of the garbage collector.
I looked through the peephole at the retreating figure. Something gnawed within. Dirty baggage left at my heart's doorstep. Uncollected and decomposing. I turned away.
* Inaam -- Gift
posted by Kumari @ 3:05 PM
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