She was used to waiting in long lines from the time she was a child – at water taps, in school, in temples, at ration shops, at bus stops, outside government offices. Often, she was made to stand in a separate queue a little distance away from the main one that would get attended to first. She was also used to the disappointments that so often greeted her when her turn finally arrived. But today outside the crematorium she could not bear it anymore. She wanted to leave his body right there in her neighbour Nizambhai’s auto and race back home.
She wondered how long the queues were when Bhikhu was here few days ago with his old mother’s body. But it was not only the death of his mother that broke him; she had seen his spirit crumble much before, watching his people suffer without money, without food, without jobs, aimlessly agitating for months to get the malik to pay their pending wages, struggling to find some work that would pay enough, and getting crushed under debt much before the bimari swallowed them up. This merciless bimari was perhaps a boon for their lot, was what she used to think. Until…
