One of the things I had decided to do on moving to Santiniketan was to indulge in all those things that Mumbai had given me no time or money for. Long lazy breakfasts, afternoon snoozes, late night movies with no thought of work schedules the following day were some of the priceless luxuries that I could suddenly afford as soon as I gave up my monthly pay cheque.
Another luxury that my work-weary body and mind yearned for in Mumbai was a daily massage, which, of course, time did not permit (unless I was willing to have one in the car during my long commutes). So, when I moved to Santiniketan I knew this was one desire that I could easily fulfil. Long years of corporate training in skill identification made the task easy. Santiniketan has a huge population of migrants from neighbouring Jharkand and Bihar. So I opted for a Bihari malishwali. Her rates are too embarrassing to quote.
Gauri, my malish lady visits me three times a week. She figured early on that I was not one of those people who would like to have a conversation during the blissful half hour. Her efforts at telling me about her neighbours or other households she visited were dealt with curtly. So, with her innate intelligence, Gauri learnt to keep quiet.
But malish is a potent bond builder so over the last half-a-dozen years as our relationship grew, I became more indulgent and Gauri less deferential. I was soon listening to tales of how her husband had spoilt his liver and the amounts she was spending on his treatment. On her part, sympathy for her husband’s suffering soon turned into irritation and contempt. Her conversation veered to how she was praying for his death. He obliged and Gauri, all of 35 and a mother of two, heaved a sigh of relief.
Her stories became more cheerful and we would often have a good laugh over attitudes of people I met socially and she met in the course of her work. She would seek my advice on how to repair her house, or whether her elder son should continue to work even though the pay was not good enough. Many a time I could be of help and at other times, useless. Like the time she asked me before the pujas where could she find “Borgondas” that her son had asked for. She told me that she had asked at all the shops and no one had been able to help her. It was much later that I made the connection. a pair of Bermudas is what the lad was asking for.
Recently, however, Gauri has been sad again, telling me stories about how her younger son seems to have no appetite and refuses to eat. Initially, the stories were about how he missed breakfast and how she was trying to prepare food that he might like. But slowly I realised her worry was increasing since the boy was eating almost nothing at all.
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I was alarmed and suggested she consult a doctor. She said it may be beyond doctors. I rebuked her and said some appetite enhancers were known to do the trick with kids. She remained quiet and I realised there was something in this story that I was missing. Finally, she told me about his substance abuse.
“How old is he?” was my next question. “He is nine,” replied Gauri. I recovered from this shock and asked what he was addicted to and from where he got the money. “Gum,” replied Gauri, “which he buys by selling anything that he finds at home.”
Gauri could enlighten me no more. But my survey with some of the young boys who work with us in the cafe gave me a low-down. “It’s the cycle tyre fixing gum,” they said. “Addicts empty it into a plastic bag, put their face in it and sniff,” they told me. I knew I would be unable to offer Gauri much advice.