Short fiction: A middle-class woman’s hostility toward the garbage collector gives way to compassion
The telephone rang. It was my neighbour, Paramjit.
“Did you give Madhu a kambal?”
“Yes.”
“I thought it must be you. Look, you shouldn’t give her things. It creates problems for the rest of us.” The iciness of her voice, the controlled annoyance, vibrated through the receiver.
“She brought her baby and it was so cold yesterday…”
My reply was cut short. “Your sympathy is wasted on the likes of her. If she has money to buy beedi she can buy a kambal as well. I thought I had better warn you … Bye.”
A click. I had offended my neighbour.
Madhu was the koodawali who came every day to collect garbage from our homes. She walked with an insolent swing of the hips, her hair tied in a bun on top of her head, and she smoked a beedi. My neighbours hated her but they never opposed her “demands” because of the stream of foul language that poured out the moment she was riled. That was her trump card. No one dared to challenge one who had such a lethal weapon at her command.
My first encounter with Madhu took place the day after we moved into the house. I opened the window of the bedroom at the back to find...
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