2008 - Glendale Community College

a hard plastic, numbered token, to be handed back to him when
one collected the bags on leaving the store. The brightly lit
aisles beckoned, their neatly organized shelves stacked high
with beautifully displayed products whose glossy, artful labels
vied for attention. One could linger to peruse them in
luxurious, air conditioned comfort as the thick, tinted glass
walls insulated one from the deafening cacophony of the mad
drivers that pounded hotly down the dusty streets beyond, like
people possessed. And somehow, the fatigue fell away as one’s
aching feet now began to glide smoothly over the clean, polished
floors. The habitual pain gradually became a dim and even
tolerable memory as one inhaled the fresh, fragrant, smog-free
air inside. In another colorful section with sloping trays and
baskets, pre-cleaned and prepackaged fruits and vegetables
glowed healthily from their breathable cellophane jackets.
Already divided into meal size units that took the guesswork
out of it, they saved the stressed consumer valuable time and
effort. The higher prices were a small deterrent for such
thoughtful service.
I imagined Manda in the store, rubbing shoulders with overweight
women in crisp designer salwar-kameezes, bedecked with
white gold and lipstick, diamond rings flashing as they waved
an airy hand at an acquaintance. Their accessorized diaphanous
scarves trailing unevenly behind them as they floated past
Manda in a cloud of perfume, sizing her up in a single, dismissive
glance that seemed to skim over her and then glance
off as if she weren’t quite there. Tossing their dark swathes
of henna-conditioned hair as they call out to their nannies in
measured but commanding nasal tones to mind the children better,
husbands, children and the unfortunate nannies in tow.
Hair that cascaded down their backs in a straight, silky curtain,
then swirled in a body, its highlights catching the dying
gold of sunshine slanting in through the tinted windows.
And somehow, in spite of it all, I could see Manda holding her
own.
As she spoke, her face became animated, the expressions
flitting across it in quick succession. She said she hadn’t
known for a long time that she had even needed glasses and
that sometimes, in school, she’d encountered flak from the
other kids for trying to be “better” than them. Then she added,
almost as an afterthought, that when she had first started
at this job, she had had no idea whatsoever how to cook
“fancy”. Her various expert, but now fed-up employers, were
only too willing to share their tips, tricks, short cuts and
techniques. So slowly but surely, she had squirreled away the
odd assortment of facts and put them to use, sometimes transplanting
the ideas from one kitchen to another. Little by
little, she’d made it work. And now, she was a pro.
To me, Manda epitomized a changing India. One in which everyone,
from the Harvard educated CEO to the completely illiterate
street savvy vegetable vendor, owned cell phones and
spent equal amounts of time on them! One in which the increasingly
polluted and pothole ridden roads were clogged with more
and more four wheelers. An India in which it seemed as though
building construction had become an integral part of every
city street, even as real estate prices shot through the roof.
And one in whose cities, to my everlasting regret, large shady
trees and bullock carts were fast becoming a disappearing
memory.
“The emerging lower and middle classes will determine the
future of the world’s largest democracy,” warbled some wellheeled
economists, half glad, half sad. In the technology
driven whirlwind that could well be India’s rise to superpowerdom,
equal opportunities and economic independence were
proving to be great class levelers and in this race, it seemed
as though Manda had firmly straddled the winning horse.