Running up the wooden stairs with metal sheets nailed on (probably from countless footsteps), I reached the first floor and peeked into the deserted veranda. I took a brief pause, perhaps expecting more people, then I grasped the stairwell post and skipped a few steps while rushing up.
The second floor brought a shock. Half a dozen, maybe more, women sat in a group, some on the floor with their backs to the wall, others on stools, one on an opulent-looking ottoman. I tried to look away, searching for doors and an office.
“What are you looking for, Maalik?” the woman on the ottoman inquired, amusement, maybe even seduction, lacing her voice. “Maybe I’m in the wrong place,” I stammered, stepping back, hands still gripping the post.
“We are never the wrong place,” she chuckled, a symphony of laughter rippling through the veranda, “and even if we are, we’ll show you the right one.”
“Looking for someone in particular?” another woman asked, her chin resting on her palm, elbow pressed into her thighs. “Deodatt bhai,” I replied, feeling stupid – stupid for being in a place where people barely owned their names, let alone be remembered by them. If there was a place where people cared less, this had to be it.
“I can tell you where your Deodatt bhai is, but will you pay me for it?” the woman by the railing spoke. I stood there, simply smiling, a mix of amusement and uncertainty at her request. I nodded. She pointed at the building next door. “Top floor, third office. But you owe me 200 for this.” Reaching for my wallet, unsure of the amount I had, “Not now,” she said, approaching me. “Find your Deodatt, and if it’s the right guy, come back and pay me then.” I don’t remember what I said, or maybe nothing at all. I ran down the stairs and entered the two-story building next door.
Unlike the previous one, this seemed newly built. Wider stairs with tiles replaced the worn wood. No one was in sight. I hurried up the stairs, finding Deodatt’s office on the second floor. As I entered his office, I quickly looked at the women I had met earlier. Some of them were gone, the woman I’d spoken to was entering one of the doors.
This was my first meeting with Deodatt, a bald man in his early 50s with a soft voice. I collected the money, sat down, and counted the bundles of rupees. The realization hit me – I was carrying a substantial amount, a target in this unforgiving environment. Deodatt’s parting words echoed: “Be careful. This isn’t the safest place with that kind of money.”
You understand true dilemmas when you have to make choices, particularly when you have to choose between your belief system and your fear. The pattern wanted me to go back to that woman, give her the promised money and leave, while the fear wanted me to not step into that building with this kind of money. As I walked down the stairs, my fear was fighting me and my need to be fair. I stood there for a long minute or two before I found myself climbing the debilitated stairs of the same old building, but this time slower, more deliberate. The number of women had dwindled to six, most in their thirties with a couple younger ones. They huddled around a stool laden pakodas and had tea cups in their hand. There was one glass of tea, placed in a saucer with some pakodas on the side.
“Did you find your Deodatt?” the woman from earlier inquired, a hint of amusement in her eyes. I smiled, reaching for my wallet to give her the promised money. Finding two hundred rupee notes, I extended my hand, my mind still wrestling with the fear and unsure why I came back. She burst into laughter, joined by the other women. Waving her hand dismissively, she said “Have the tea and pakoda before it gets cold”, offering me the glass of tea and some pakodas on the side. I am not a tea drinker, the tea didn’t taste great either, the pakodas were fresh, and their banter with me was forgettable, but none of this mattered because while walking down those old stairs, I wasn’t feeling the fear anymore.
