The Rag-Picker

The evening sun set into the murky waters of Chowpatty beach, drowning in the sounds and sights of the evening fair, that was past. When the laughter of children was heard no more, the florescent lights dimmed and the milling crowds receded into the safe of their homes, the rag-picker went about her evening ritual. Her tattered clothes fluttered in the salty sea-breeze and the evening chill penetrated to the bone. Her feet were dry and blistered; her wispy hair infested with lice. With a dirty old canvas sack slung across her gaunt frame, her beady eyes, now failing vision, inspected every spot on the beach for what the sea had left behind. The scavengers surrounded her, squabbling over a half-eaten butta. The frail woman hobbled along to escape these ominous creatures, picking up polythene bags and shells along her path.

Hers was not an easy living. It was barely a hand to mouth existence. Her meager earnings of 6-7 rupees a day, would on the rare occasion earn herself and her children one square meal. On most days, however this pittance was snatched by that drunken fool, abusive father and wife-beater and squandered on cheap liquor. Her family had paid to marry her off, the girl child, the nuisance. She was still paying the dowry that would never be enough. The slum was a place of violence and terror. She would return, weary from the physical effort as well as the mental strain only to be given a sound thrashing and see her children being beaten black and blue. She had already lost one child and now she fell down on her knees, weeping, begging their release.

From the moment the village mid-wife shrieked in shock and obvious disappointment at her deliverance of her eldest child, a baby girl, her fate was doomed. There was the family debt situation that only worsened each generation with the curses of inflation and large dowries to provide for. Her children, malnourished and dying, lay like mounds of dirt on the footpaths under the scorching sun. Her own ill-health made each passing day more difficult than the first. What would she do on a rag-pickers wage? The politicians, hypocrites, did nothing to improve their lot as one government superseded the next with huge empty promises of rehabilitation.

As nightfall silenced the city of Mumbai, the rag-picker stole into the darkness, carrying within her heart, the burdens of her world. Where was the mercy of this unjust God? Her world was caving in, engulfing her being and trapping her in the clutches of poverty and despair.

Her fight for survival continues....Who will hear her story?