Moments on a Sunday Morning

Karthik reaches down into the bucket, his hands cupped. He captures the cold water, and brings it up and unto his head and back with a quick and smooth arched movement. His sinewy muscles are tense over his bones, and his skin reflects back the Mumbai morning sun. His feet shift over the rough bricks as the local train whizzes past.

Arjun buttons up his tan shirt, matching his tan pants. He swishes some water in his mouth, then spits out the door as he steps out. Not far away, his rickshaw is waiting. He stops for a while to talk with fellow drivers, congregated over several cups of chai. Then he walks the rick out to the street, kicks his chappals off, and with one leg crossed underneath him, pulls the kickstart, and his livelihood rumbles into existence.

Shruti puts bright red lipstick on. It highlights her dark mascara, completing the 40 minute process of re-sculpting her face. Her cheeks, eyes, and lips were a messy canvas when she woke, but she has since created a masterpiece. Or so she hopes. She still doesn’t think so. She kisses her lips together as she turns to the side and looks at her body. The blue dress, as tight as it is, may be overkill, but she can’t risk it. Who knows who she’ll see at Starbucks?

Bharat is slapped awake. His mother is yelling something at him, but his ears haven’t quite woken up yet. His headache is splitting, and he still has a faint taste of foul beer in his breath. He groggily asks his mom to give him more time to sleep, but her barrage continues. He’s still wearing the black shirt and jeans he wore to the bar last night, and it’s obvious he drove home drunk. The mother leaves him to his stale odor.

Lola lights the stovetop. There is a single burner, with a simple line connected directly to a red and dented propane tank. The room is dark, even though the sun has risen. The light only reaches this part of the slum for a few moments at noon, when a skinny crack lets a stream of warmth in. Her children are sleeping close to her feet, so she’s careful not to drop anything hot. Her husband is snoring in the corner loudly. She puts a paratha on the skillet, and watches it rise slightly.

Nirali is sitting with her fish again. Her husband had caught them the day before, and she had them in a basket, sitting on ice. One leg is crossed underneath her, the other supporting her chin. She is staring out at the road, her wrinkled skin gathers sweat in the creases. Her blue saree and head cover are clean, but the fish odor can never be completely removed. A motorcycle drives by and covers the fish in a layer of exhaust. Nirali is un-phased.

Vaibhav looks down the tracks. He is holding a large sack of potatoes on his head. He doesn’t know how to read the electronic sign indicating how many minutes until the next train, and upon not seeing the train coming, he drops the potatoes on the platform and takes a seat. He picks at his teeth as he looks across the tracks at a girl wearing a t-shirt and jeans. She is laughing with friends. The train comes, obstructing his view. He heaves the potatoes up on his leg, and lifts them onto the moving train as he jumps on. Inside, he sits on the potatoes again, and watches the city go by.

No one knows his name, and no one cares. He is laying on the road near death. Flies gather around him, and circle his labored breaths. Coming here was a mistake, he thinks.

Balram fidgets with his iPad. The backseat of his Jaguar is still warm for his taste, at least in the Armani suit he is wearing. He tells the driver to turn the AC up, and re-enters the tablet. The fragrance of his cologne is too strong, but his nostrils are desensitized to it. Crumbling buildings and bent people are all around him, but he doesn’t like looking at all that.

The sun has risen over Mumbai. It’s a Sunday, and the city has begun.

Shruti hails Arjun, who nods when she requests “Starbucks Juhu?”. Lola realizes that she is missing potatoes, and goes outside to buy some from Vaibhav, who has just arrived from the station. Karthik walks down to the market, where he buys a fish from Nirali. He winks. He always thought she was beautiful in her blue sarees. Bharat stumbles outside, and sees Balram drive by in his black Jag. That’s all he wants in life: money and power. He drinks because of it. Balram pulls up to his office, and glances at a dying man on the sidewalk. He looks away in disgust.