Half day Holiday

By Gogol Datta

(content warnings violence and sexual assault)

“Congratulations, you have been selected…”

Nameless’s eyes were too tired to read the email in its entirety. He was happy, no, he was content that he had got the job he so desperately needed for his family.

A call two hours later and 700 miles away would point him to the true reason behind his success. His mother would inform him, her voice crackling with happiness, or static interference due to network issues – one could hardly be sure of emotions over long-distance call these days; that her daily prayers at the Bhawani temple – made of saffron sandstones and inhabited by a squint-eyed idol that claimed to have terrorized the world many eons back; collapsed on 15th August many years ago, had secured her son this job over thousands of other applicants. She would then go on to tell him to eat curd with sugar before leaving for work on his first day.

“Pagaad kitna aur kab milta?”

Before Nameless could share these important details of his salary, the call would get disconnected. His mother’s mobile must have switched off. There was intermittent electricity in his village. He could now pay for the solar panel installation, an amount of rupees five thousand to the portly, Brahmin sarpanch.

Now, time for a text. This time, it was to the scent of lavender in the same city, “I got it. The job.” Two blue ticks appeared on his mobile screen.

“Whoa … party tonite Babe. Me coming to your place.” “No… not today. Tuesday. At the café …”

Before he could complete the typing, his phone rang up, the screen jiggling with Spark’s face.

“Congrats, congrats, congrats …” Spark’s voice floated in the room like a small lark chirping around a bristle.

“Thenku Thenku ...”

“So, bigshot. What’s the plan?”

Nameless always faltered in questions that asked his imperative for actions in the future, and before he could answer, Spark had moved on to another topic – her student applications at the foreign land of immigrants. The chirps of her voice soothed him, and the best part was she could continue a conversation on her own.

“ Shall I come now? I might get the last metro”, Nameless was jolted back into the present with this sudden itinerary of Spark and as a result, dropped his mobile on the hard granite floor. He picked it up, hoping that the device was alright. Thankfully, only a crack had appeared in the glass cover of his mobile.

“Hello…” – the conversation would continue over an hour or more, while the pale moon above them would slowly sneak into their rooms.

... … … … … … … … … …

“Welcome to kind screens – where we make sure that the screens we see are nicer, humane and kinder.” The HR smiled, looking at everyone yet making eye contact with none.

She continued, “I have your identity cards with me. Please wear the id card all the time inside the compound. When you log into your assigned desktops, a three-digit alphanumeric code will be sent to your mobile which you would be required to enter in your computer within 2.5 minutes.” Lady was breathless after talking nonstop for such a prolonged duration and signaled for a glass of water.

Nameless was soaking all this in, along with 24 other candidates who were being orientated for their first day at work in an eerily white room that reeked of newly bought aftershave. One could sniff a hint of perfume too. Nameless wanted to make strong eye contact with the HR rep and smile. It would be an indication of his willingness to work hard. He had worn a new set of clothes today – a blue formal shirt and dark black trousers. He had accidentally spilled small drops of curd on his shirt and cursed his mother, mentally of course – one doesn’t curse his mother aloud, for giving such advice. However, the lady was busy cleaning up water that she had spilled on herself.

“Aur kaha se ho bhai? “a slightly, obese-looking man, with shining cheeks had approached him. Nameless looked at him, the man with a bottle greened formal shirt (greased with sweat around his armpits) and brown corduroy pants with a belly overflowing from the confines of his body, reluctant to strike a conversation with a stranger and future competitor (these corporate firms are places of cut-throat competition – Sparks had told him). The candidates had all broken ranks, and there was a swarm around the four female ones. Nameless replied, “I am from here only.”

“You are from Delhi?” the fat man was persistent, wiping sweat from his bald patch of the head with a white kerchief.

“No I used to study here, I have completed my MPhil from JNU …”

“Ooo...ho… ohh… Antinational you are … He He He….” – the man’s belly began to vibrate with his laughter.

“I am Manu by the way,” the fat man poked at his rib and extended his hand for a shake

“Arey let’s do the handshake bhai…” Manu grabbed Nameless’s hand. “Tell me your contact, I will save it on WhatsApp,” Manu had taken out his cellphone from the confines of the pocket of his trousers and was ready to type in the details. After they had exchanged their contacts, Manu told Nameless to change his cell cover, he was earning now and contributing to the country and not studying in some useless Ph.D. program.

Nameless decided on the spot that he would speak less to this obnoxious person while Manu’s voice echoed in the white room with the same question again and again “Aur bhai aap kaha se ho?”

… …. …. …..

The whistle of the pressure cooker filled Nameless’s new 1 bhk abode (rented at a throwaway bargain according to his owner), and steam began to erupt from its nozzle. Spark hurried towards the stainless steel cooker, checking to see if the rice inside the container had been properly softened up. “Make this peg a little hard for me,” she instructed Nameless while unlocking the cooker.

Nameless was measuring with scientific precision the exact level of rum that he had poured in the two disposable plastic glasses and failing to comprehend the liquids level. He needed supervision and asked Spark to join him immediately. “It’s not even midnight yet, and you are already done…” quipped Spark. Nameless never liked rum, it smelled like country liquor. Its bitter taste was something he could never digest. the spark came back to him, bringing back the perfume of lavender into the room and began listing out the lacunae that this 1 bhk had. The bathroom lacked hangers where she could hang her clothes pre-bath every corner of the ceiling had cobwebs that had formed back some eons ago, the ceiling fan was from the age when dinosaurs roamed on the Earth. But her most important problem was she could never catch network in this godforsaken room of his. “Why didn’t you ask me before shifting into this one?” She quipped, tapping her finger into the chest of Nameless. Nameless stooped into her lips and kissed, finding the bitterness of rum in his mouth sweeten. “Osobho, it is two years and yet you don’t know how to kiss…” Spark said and united her lips against his.

Long after they had finished off their drinks and lay on the bed, she looked around the quaint room and decided “I will get a bin for you.” He was busy uniting the marriage line of his right palm with her spider-lined waist, no woman of his caste her age in his village would have so much flesh in her body. What was the need, he remarked, when I could pile things anywhere? She had picked up his hand, observing his yellow-stained nails, and wondered aloud – how could he have such nicotine stains when he didn’t even smoke. In reply, He kissed her once again, this time on her forehead.

The series of exchange of kisses continued till Spark had dozed off to sleep, her soft snores were in rhythm with the squeaks of the rotating ceiling fan, Nameless went to the kitchen and poured water inside the unwashed pressure cooker, his hands still reeking of lavender, proof that a part of her had diffused into him.

… …. … …. … …

Kinder Screens had assigned Nameless a single desk with a computer and internet connection. A brief had been prepared by the company, which described his role as a legal compliance assistant. The heavily bosomed HR had a one-to-one meeting with him and told him, “You will be building the nation Nameless. You will make the internet a safe space and the computer screens kinder.”

“How?” Nameless balked at such a heavy responsibility and was conscious not to stare at the slight hint of cleavage that was peeking out of the white shirt of Miss Radha, as per the name tag imprinted on her chest.

“By removing hateful comments from social media network, and if you are good, you could transition to removing videos from the net.” Radha had given a warm smile, sure that Nameless would love this job.

“Anything you find slurful towards minorities, Dalits. You are a Dalit right?”

Nameless nodded in agreement, his attention swiftly coming back to the conversation from Radha’s bosoms, hidden beneath layers of cotton fabric.

“We are an equal opportunity provider Nameless, and who would be the better judge than you, a Dalit who has faced Brahmannical tyranny through the ages and knows what discrimination and insult is …”

Nameless was amazed at this opportunity that had come to him. He would right the systemic wrong of the centuries, but, important things first, “Maam, what about my PF and insurance? “

“Insurance after you last your probation period but no PF. You are on contract. No holiday during probation period too.”

He would adjust, and finally did what he had wanted to do on his first day of work,

Nameless looked at Radha, made strong eye contact and smiled “Ok Maam, I will take your leave.”

…… … … … ….

The kid hated going to the red-bricked school. He wasn’t allowed inside the classroom, for he would pollute the upper caste boys. He would scratch his white nails on the brick joints of the school walls, and listen intently to the master, careful to remain invisible to his schoolmates. Occasionally, his curiosity would get better of him and one eye forward, his head would peek into the room. The kids would see him and sing in unison,” Garbage garbage, stinks like poo, garbage garbage go away, shoo shoo shoo.” He would run away to his mother. His father, bare-chested, with a shriveling torso and even thinner legs, would be sleeping in a charpayee outside the house, drools of saliva running down from the lower corner of his lips, forming small pools on the gobar plastered floor. When awake, his hands would tremble, as if the nervous system of his body couldn’t handle this erosion of senses by cheap liquor and had decided to protest. On the 15th of every month, his father would tie a red ghamcha around his head and step out of the mud thatched house, with a shovel, drunk to his throat with desi tharra. He would visit the houses of people having pucca latrines and ask for money and a new ghamcha. After much negotiation, he would climb down into the septic tanks and shovel the shit out.

One fine day, the father decided that it was time for his boy to be initiated into the family business. “Akhir Valmiki ka beta hoga toh Valmiki hi…” he quipped flippantly to his wife. The next day, they went to Shrimaan’s house. The father negotiated hard and asked for 5 rupees extra. Wasn’t his son going to do it the first time? And didn’t this require a special appearance fee? He moaned before Shrimaan. After much hanky panky, Shrimaan decided to pay 2 rupees more and 2 brand new ghamchaas. The father then asked his kid to take off all his clothes. He only had 1 pair of them except the school ones, and it would get soiled permanently. The kid stepped into his father’s shadow to shield himself against the raging yellow sun that was torching the ground, stripped himself of all the garments and took a rope of coconut fiber from his father’s trembling hands. He tied the rope around his waist, and as his naked body was lowered into the tank, he tried not to think of the ridicule that would be offered to him in school the next day.

The stench inside the tank was unbearable, the earth beneath his feet sponge. Every pore in his naked body was permeated by this stinking, almost stinging smell. His eyes began to burn; a defense mechanism is initiated by the young body to wash out the poo. He looked ahead and saw the smell change into darkness. His legs refused to walk on this unfamiliar softness, and he slipped, head fast into the pool of turd. He looked up, his father’s red ghamcha complementing a small crescent slice of blue sky. He yelled, but his lungs refused to yield. Frantically, he tried to sit up straight, his hands sinking into the slimy mass and failed. After a second try, he grappled onto the rope and tugged it hard, before fainting back into the all-engulfing churn of feces.

When he woke up, his mother was applying a water bandage on his forehead and telling him,” you don’t have to do this anymore beta, you will study and become a big man.” The

room was still smelling of the septic tank as if a pile of shit had permanently stuck inside the boy’s nose. All his nails had turned a colour of jaundiced yellow. He puked, again and again, his body was cleansing his innards of the tatti he had gulped in the septic tank. His mother gave him an ors pack and started singing him a lullaby. For weeks, he would tremble in his sleep at night, the darkness perforating into his dreams, slowly swallowing him into a liquid ocean of goo.

The kid would refuse to go to school the next week, skipping midday meals too, and would hide in a banyan tree behind the Bhawani mandir.

On 15th of August a particular year, the earth would tremble and cover the manhole with stones while the kid’s father would be inside a septic tank. The kid and the mother would try to clear the pile of rubbish. They would request for a JCB to dig out the body and would be promptly refused. The JCB was to be used for cleaning the Bhawani temple that had collapsed and could they pay the rate for a day of using the vehicle, the Sarpanch would ask. The Sarpanch was not an unkind person, for he would give them a red ghamcha and 5 rupees as consolation. He would also ask the kid to continue his schooling, and promise him a scholarship for his college education.

When he would return to school after two days of bereavement – (he couldn’t skip the midday meals anymore), the kid was made to seat in a corner on the inverted white dustbin.

… … … … …

Nameless had an innate ability to clean the internet out. He was the best performer among all the 25 selected candidates.

“Chutiya sala, nich jaat “, deleted. “Chamar ka beta….,” deleted.

“Sala katwe…,” Control + Shift + Delete.

Nameless had deleted 1,50,000 comments that were posted in an online video sharing app in 60 hours. Manu was of the opinion that this superhuman fact was possible because of his academics. “Arre that university jaha se woh pade hein na, they see our desi sanskriti as a gali. You tell me, is it possible that 1,50,000 posts- all of them are insulting? Kuch toh majak hein na – hum nei bolte logo ko ki chamar hein tu? Anyways, such a kanjoos he is, not changing the mobile cover yet.”

Nameless was given an appreciation certificate and a ghamcha by Miss Radha – (She had picked up the phrase Vocal for Local from the immensely popular Prime Minister of the country while presenting the ghamcha) in front of his colleagues, and the claps for his service to the nation were sonorous enough to fill the whole room. He called up Spark and got a promise of a gift from her. His productivity dropped immediately, the anticipation of Spark’s gift in his mind had made him lose his focus.

When Nameless returned to his rented apartment, he saw a plastic white dustbin outside the door with a greeting card cello-taped on it. Inside the card was written in a cursive manner, “Congratulations, star performer.”

… .. … … … …

Nameless keyed in his unique id and ran towards the information center of the office, where he and the other 24 employees kept their mobiles. He had to reach his mobile

within half a minute and commit to memory the OTP which he would have to key in. Video moderators were not allowed cell phones in their cubicles.

After he logged in, a warning appeared on the computer screen with a 16,000-word count of guidance. He quickly scrolled to the bottom of the e-document and applied a tick mark to the box where it read “I agree…”. A window opened up on the screen. Video number 1 in black San Serif Font appeared on the screen. A woman was surrounded by two men, both of them were wearing colorful gloves – one a red pair and the other blue. Red gloved one slapped her while the other tore her clothes off her body. The men tied her hands up with the ceiling fan and switched the fan on and said” Ab nacch Bhangi”. The woman was skinned red like a kashmiri apple, and as she began rotating and revolving from the fan, the blue gloved man began pushing a steel torch inside her private organ while the other one started clapping.

…. … … Video no 2.

A blonde, thin man was wearing army khakis with an ak 56 on his hands. The background music was an electronic mash-up of seventies pop music. The man winked at Nameless and said,” let the game begin.” He turned around and the computer screen took a point of view camera angle. The bead on top of the rifle barrel took center stage on the screen. The video started to move, into a theatre and a shout was heard “Fire in the hole.” The barrel started raining bullets on a group of people. Few fell onto the ground, and a crowd gathered and ran towards the exit door. The rifle emptied out. The pop music

had transitioned into a series of claps. The man reappeared on the computer screen and said,” Round two.”

… … … … Video no 20.

Small, soft, supple wrists could be seen tied together with a nylon rope. “Yes, doll…” a voice whispered in the background. The wrists were suddenly jerked multiple times; an invisible force was being thrust upon the body of those hands. The view in the computer screen progressed from the wrist, upwards where a child’s face was visible. An old, bald man was running his fingers over the hair of the child. A link appeared on the screen instructing the viewers to click for more videos like this.

… … … …

Nameless had removed 222 video links in five days and was unable to sleep for more than two hours at night. He had also developed a fear of claps. His appeal for a holiday was promptly refused, however, he was awarded another ghamcha, and his heart began to throb loudly when his colleagues clapped. Manu was seen wiping sweat off his bald head repetitively during the award ceremony.

A new email was issued to all the employees in the office which said,” Considering the explicit violence in some of the videos, we have decided that there will be an inbuilt filter which will render the videos black and white so as to mitigate the gruesomeness of the content. We appreciate your support and your effort in making our computer screens kinder.”

… … … … …

“I have been selected at Duft’s school of public policy,” Spark said to Nameless without any emotion in her voice.

Spark had demanded this sudden meeting on a weekday, and the urgency in her voice had got Nameless a little worried. They had decided to meet in their college café.

“Toh jashn kare? Party tum dogi?” Nameless managed to convert his wide yawn into a wide grin. He was always tired.

“You know what this means right?” Spark’s voice was very insipid, despite her success. “you will be a Ph.D. holder and shine like a star.”

“We won’t be meeting each other…

A child was visible in the café, with her mom. The child was in video number 20. Or was it video number 35? 79? 146? 208? The mother took a seat below one of the many ceiling fans in the café. The ceiling fan would not bear the weight of the woman. The child’s wrist would blister if tied with a nylon rope. Nameless began to blink, once, twice, thrice, innumerable times now, his eyelids trying to fan away the kid’s image from his brain.

“Where the fuck is your attention?”

“Both of them look like people in the videos I delete.” The blinks had come under his control.

“Why can’t you leave your job?”

Nameless wanted to say – because this pays my bills, my mother’s bills, the solar installation charges at my village, and I am contributing to my country- and there aren’t any jobs in the country right now- he opened his mouth and yawned instead – he was too tired to have an argument with Spark.

A waiter had brought a birthday cake to the mother-son duo and the candles would be blown away and there would be…

Claps… Claps…

“Anyways, come with me. We will settle together in the states” For the first time in the evening, Spark was excited in this evening rendezvous.

The sun was setting in this city and it had drenched the café with its golden-yellow hue. Spark, with her betel leaf face, and a perfectly formed nose had always looked out of place in his life, and there would be no Spark left in his life a few days from now - thought Nameless.

The waiter started to clap…

Nameless stood up hurriedly, and said to her in his maithali accent,” Mereko jaana hein” and left the café.

… … …. … He woke up.

For the third time.

The same night.

The ceiling fan was squeaking, alone.

He picked up his cellphone. The crack had radiated into the shape of a spider web. The message folder had notifications from the network agency. He opened up the chat messenger, wanting to read the old messages from his once-beloved.

“I “appeared on his mobile screen. The crack on the screen had rendered it impossible to read the texts.

Nameless realized that he had lost his Spark forever, and tears began to stream down his cheeks. After an hour of weeping, he decided to go back to his sleep, hoping to learn how to swallow his tears in his dreams.

… … ….

Video no 786

“Papa kya karte hein tumhare?”

A skulled cap boy looked up, bechara had been squatting on the ground for long, and answered,” Rickshaw chalate hein…”

“Kab se ghar nei aye?”

“2 din ho gaye Abbu ko ate hua…” “Kaha gya the who?”

The boy gulped down, his adam apple was seen throbbing on the screen.

“Mortein kharid ne gye the, wapis nei aye…”, the skull cap had chess patterns knitted on it.

“Jao macchor dhund, usko hi kabar do… papa gye tumhare…”

A cartoon character appeared on the screen, flipping spectacles like a southern movie superstar and started smoking a half-lit cigarette. The words Thug life began to dance on the screen and maniacal laughter erupted out of the black and white pixelated world into Nameless’ cubicle, permeating into his head through his ears.

He applied for a leave without pay for the whole week and left the office 2 hours earlier than his stipulated log-out time.

… … … …

The city was experiencing a sudden cloud burst, an anomaly of a meteorological phenomenon – caused either because of climate change or due to the time of avatar of a mythical baba as suggested by a leading newspaper. Thunders clapped the skies and electrocuted at least 35 people. The roads had become waterlogged. After 3 days, the water began to recede from the streets, and Nameless decided to return to Kinder Screens and offer his resignation. He left for office early, wearing his blue formal shirt and black trousers, the same he had worn on his first day to work, hoping to complete formalities and be relieved by mid-day. He was unable to find an auto to the nearest metro station and started to walk the 1 km path towards the auto junction. Nameless was thinking of all the websites where he would have to apply for jobs again – this much-needed rest had given him the energy to hunt for jobs - when he saw the road in front of him change into a stream. This part of the city apparently hadn’t freed itself from the water

it seemed. Nameless bent down and pulled up the trousers up to his knees, and plunged into the water. Few steps forward and suddenly, a strong smell of turd entered his nostrils. Nameless also saw feces floating and realized, a manhole must have opened up and spilled into the street somewhere. There was no way of going back now. Nameless looked around and saw a boy recording the waterlogged street. He smiled at Nameless and Nameless smiled back, took his next step and disappeared into the water. The boy was amazed to see a man vanish into the heel-high water and yelled “Bachao bachao..”

After 3 days, when Nameless’ body was recovered, Kinder Screens decided to give a half-day holiday in memory of its best performer.

*

Gogol Datta is a sustainability professional who has majored in geology and forestry. In my spare time, Gogol writes about the marginalised section of Indian society while drinking cups of water. Gogol like to read detective thrillers and play computer games in his spare time.

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