As Numerous as Sand

I walked with my head down, trying to weave my way out of the hustle and bustle of the marketplace which was teaming with people all seemingly headed somewhere. Despite being my home, I felt lost in Mumbai, lost in the organized chaos, lost in the sea of men, women and children, waiting to be found.

My parents tried to keep me in school, but they needed my help to provide food for themselves and my six other siblings. People say my dad would be financially ruined in the future, having to pay five dowries for five daughters when they are to be married. It was crucial that me and my only brother worked day and night to provide for our family.

Together with my brother, we had started off by panhandling, asking tourists, wealthy patrons and strangers for any spare change. When this wasn’t enough, we had to adapt or risk letting our family starve, and so we began to steal; little things at first, but gradually involving more and more expensive, yet riskier, jobs.

Bumping into a man in a suit, he glared at me as if to say “Watch where you’re going,” before turning around and rejoining the flow of traffic. Quickly putting the smartphone I had just procured into my pocket, I glanced around to make sure nobody saw me take the phone, whether that be police, or rival pickpockets who would be glad to take the phone off my hands. My eyes darted back and forth, eager to find my next target, in the sea of people, ebbing and flowing like the ocean.

When me and my brother returned home at night, we proudly showed our parents the money we had made that day. Mom was elated at how much we had “earned,” while Dad was more concerned about where we got the money and if it would endanger the family. Swearing to our father that we made the money honestly, we tried our best to play innocent, yet Dad always knew what was going on and he would not be convinced. He warned us that one day we’ll get caught and we’ll wish we had never stolen anything in the first place.

As me and my brother lay in our bunks thinking of the day’s events, he wondered if there was anything more to life than just earning enough to eat every day. He proposed that what if we didn’t have to worry about money for food? What would we do? Would we be happier? Would life be more fulfilling?

I pondered on his questions, not knowing the answer myself, but just as eager as he was to think of such dreams.

As the family woke up the next day, Dad was making slippers to sell as usual, sitting with his bad leg stretched out and with his crutches nearby. Mom was cooking breakfast, though it only consisted of a thin gruel sprinkled with some lentils and beans.

My five sisters took their spots around the food in the centre, as we each took a bowlful and ate in silence. Soon, there was nothing left but an empty pot, which still had to be used despite having a small crack near the rim.

As me and my brother took our bags and prepared to head out, our dad took us both and looked straight at our eyes, before issuing this warning: “Mantosh, and you Kiaan, I want you both to swear that you won’t steal anything, not even a small grain of rice.” Holding us both till we swore to our father, we hitched a free ride on a slow-moving train, headed to the downtown district of Mumbai.

Indeed, me and my brother had no intention of keeping our promise, but stealing behind our father’s back caused our hearts to be ashamed and sad at the same time.

As we got off to work, my brother took one side of the street, while I handled the other side. All was going well till one woman screamed, shouting that a pickpocket had stolen her golden necklace. Panic set in my mind as I tried to make out where my brother was in the sea of people moving in every direction. Finally, I caught a glimpse of my brother, running away from some policemen, who seemed to be getting close and closer to my brother. Whistling to get my brother’s attention, I pointed down, signalling to hide in our underground safe spot, where we would often go to when people were looking for us.

My brother raced towards the stairs leading downwards, and I followed suit, closing the door behind us as we sat in darkness and silence, not daring to even breath loudly. We could hear the barking orders of the police chief, and the angry complaints of the woman who had lost her necklace.

We waited for what seemed like an eternity before cracking open the door and checking if the coast was clear. Seeing the policemen and lady were gone, we emerged from our hiding spot and headed straight for the pawn shop, who would be glad to exchange money for the pretty necklace. Offering us nearly two thousand rupees, we quickly hid the money and headed home, eager to impress our parents with our earnings.

Both Mom and Dad were shocked not having seen that much money in a long time. While Mom was willing to turn a blind eye as to where we got the money, our Dad was immediately suspicious about the source of the money.

Mom immediately left with a small amount of our earnings to buy some more food while Dad continued making his sandals in silence, keeping the boys in front of him the whole time. Me and my brother felt uncomfortable for lying to our Father, but we also realized it was a quick way to prevent our family from starving.

After what seemed like forever, Dad finally spoke to us, with a dire seriousness in his voice, “Boys, now I want the whole truth. Where did you get the money from?”

Me and my brother adverted the invasive gaze of our father, unable to make eye contact as we tried to come up with an excuse. “We were panhandling and this woman gave us the money!” said my brother, in an excited manner. “Wasn’t that right Mantosh?”

I could feel a lump in my throat as I was dragged into the lies of my brother: “Yes…er…yes this rich woman, with a purple sari I remember.”

Dad put down his sandal and sighed with resignation: “Boys, I’m in no condition to supervise you when you’re out of the house, but please, find honest work. If either of you get into trouble, we won’t be able to pay to get you out of jail or worse. My family owed money to the gangsters, so they broke my leg so I could beg for money. I don’t want the same for either of you.”

We glanced over at Dad and we could see a tear starting to well up under his eye. Then he hugged us so tight, we thought he would never let us go. As we went back to our room, we discussed what to do after Dad’s emotional plea.

“Dad’s right, if either of us got caught, we’d be paying bribes for the rest of our lives to get out of jail or avoid being killed by gangsters,” said my brother.

“Then what should we do? There’s no way we can support our family by panhandling. Perhaps if we work with Mom and sell sweets?” I suggested.

As Mom arrived back home a couple hours later, we discussed our new plan with her to see if she would give it a try. She hesitantly agreed, but warned us that cooking sweets was not something she was used to doing. So, the next morning, my brother and mom came with me to watch sweets being made at a store. We watched as they made gulab jamun out of ghee, milk, and milk powder, along with some other ingredients. They then soaked the fried jamun balls in a sugary syrup before putting them on a display in the front of the shop.

Knowing that expensive spices like the saffron and rose water that were used in the syrup were too pricy given our budget, we bought the basic ingredients and began work on making our own gulab jamun to sell. Deep frying the first spherical dessert, we soaked it in the sugary water and each took a bite, nodding in approval and congratulating each another. Soon we had packed roughly ten boxes of the sugary sweets in plastic containers to hold the dripping syrup that the balls were soaked in.

We decided to start selling the gulab jamuns at lunchtime, and carrying one cardboard box each, we set up on the street, calling out for people to buy our sweets. Things were going well as we sold five boxes for about a hundred and fifty rupees each, while receiving good feedback from the customers.

Suddenly, a gang of policemen, led by the women with the necklace before charged up to me and my brother, yelling at us and calling us dogs. They then dragged my brother away into a police car, while the officer warned me that I would be next if I continued stealing. Glaring daggers into the woman who had identified my brother, she had a smirk on her face and a look of satisfaction that her perpetrator had been caught.

Taking the rest of the boxes and hurrying back home, I rushed to tell my mom and dad what had happened. Through hot tears streaming down my eyes, I admitted that we stole for the past few weeks to provide money for the family, and that ultimately it had led to my brother’s arrest.

Dad’s brows furled into a worried look, and after looking at Mom and nodding, he slowly and painfully got up with the help of his crutch, and signalled that I join himself and Mom as we went to the police station.

When our case was finally called to the receptionist desk, Dad handed the officer four thousand rupees, hoping it would be enough to get bail for my brother. Shaking his head, the officer said that the bail was set at ten thousand rupees, and returned the meagre offering back to my dad.

Mom asked if we could at least talk to my brother, and after a sigh of acceptance, the officer allowed my parents to talk with him for a while. When they finished, we all walked back home, in an awkward silence as we each pondered what to do given the circumstances.

As we retired for bed, some of my sisters were asking where our brother went, and Mom and Dad simply hushed them and urged them to go to sleep.

Taking out the smartphone I had stolen a few days ago, I figured it would be worth enough to pay for the bail for my brother. So, the next morning, I took it to the pawn shop and offered to sell the phone. But something wasn’t right, as the vendor was sweating bullets and was nervously looking left and right. “Sorry kid, I can’t buy that right now. Get on out now, out you go!” he said nervously.

Dejected, I walked right into another policeman, who promptly took the phone from my hands. “I told you brat that if you stole again, you’d be worse off than your brother. Now jail’s much too nice for a rat like you. I think a couple years of forced labour in the Thar Desert ought to teach you a lesson.

Struggling to get loose from the policemen’s grip, I made excuse after excuse, trying to prove my innocence that we both knew wasn’t true. I was dragged to the police station, where I was fingerprinted, photographed and thrown into a cell with other criminals facing the same fate. The hungry looks on their faces and the smirks they gave me sent chills down my spine as I backed into a corner. As night fell, I was finally able to sleep out of sheer exhaustion and anxiety, and I began to dream of my family back home. I could see my brother Kiaan, dressed in a school uniform and smiling like I had never seen him smile before. My sisters were wearing beautiful dresses, from sky blue to crimson red with golden edges that shimmered in the sunlight. Mother was cutting a large watermelon, and there were curries, stews, and deserts waiting on the table for us to eat. Dad’s leg was fully healed, thanks to the medication and he gestured for me to come sit with him around the dining table. He was wearing a polo shirt with dress pants and casual shoes, and his eyes had a sparkle to them as he encouraged his children to eat. I poured some curry on my rice and relished the meal, never having tasted anything so good in my life. After having my fill of the main courses, I tried the deserts, which looked as if they were made at a professional restaurant. Mom beamed with pleasure as we told her the meal and deserts were delicious, and she continued urging everyone to eat more.

Suddenly, Kiaan took a broom handle and smacked me on the leg, causing me to yelp in surprise and pain. When I asked him why he was hitting me, he swung the handle at me again, resulting in a sharp pain on my thigh. By the time I was hit the third time, I had woken up and cringed to see a jailer holding a baton over me, swinging it down on my legs.

“Rise and shine sleeping beauty, it’s time to be transported,” said the man with a smirk.

As we filed in partners into the bus, we were chained two by two at the ankles and wrists, and sat down, row by row with tinted windows on each side. The man I was shackled to was an older gentleman, with a grey beard and balding head. There was a sadness in his eyes, a sense of hopelessness and defeatism from the years of having his hope of release dashed time after time. It seemed he had accepted his fate and that the train ride to the desert would be his last trip; he expected to die all alone in the desert.

The old man saw me looking at him, and he cracked a small smile, trying to explain best the predicament we were about to face. “It’s funny, isn’t it Bud, that I always wished to have more room, to not be crowded wherever I went and to have some personal space. Now, we’ll have all the space we want, but hardly a soul to talk to or socialize with.”

As I dwelled on the sage words from the old man, I looked out the window as the bus drove amongst the crowded streets filled with throngs of people all hurrying to get somewhere. How I wished to be among them, doing honest work and having my freedom to enjoy, smelling the spices in the market or betting on cock fights in the streets.

Then, I thought I saw one of my sisters, carrying a satchel of flowers to be sold in public, but the bus whizzed by so fast I couldn’t be certain it was her. Without me or Kiaan to help support the family, the girls would be forced to work meagre jobs just to make ends meet.

The bus sped through the rural suburbs until buildings were replaced by farmland, and further still, farmland was replaced by a barren wasteland. We stopped at a lonely building, still chained two by two, and was roughly ushered inside to be processed.

I looked around at my surroundings and could glimpse a scattering of figures, dotted among the sand dunes, shoveling sand into bags to be picked up. Pushed to the ground by one of the guards, I picked up a handful of the sand and it ran loosely through my fingers, being carried away by the wind.

“Up on your feet Brat! No time to waste!” shouted the guard, as he threatened with a baton.

Relieved to be inside away from the scorching sun, me and my partner were identified, given a number and handed a plain work uniform to be worn outside. The work clothes consisted of a small hat, long-sleeved shirt and loose pantaloons; all white in colour. After being shown the bunks where we would be sleeping, we entered the kitchen for dinner, where we were given a medium-sized bowl of dal and two pieces of roti. Hungry as I was, I devoured the food and scraped the bowl for every last drop of dal.

After about thirty minutes, everyone was ushered back to their bunks, and the lights turned off shortly, leaving everyone in the pitch-black darkness.

The next day, I was told to change into my work clothes, and once finished, we were sent out to the sand dunes to start work on filling bags of sand for transport. In the distance I could see a factory of some sort where our sand was to be delivered. It had huge billowing stacks spewing out fumes into the sky, wafting ever so slowly upwards.

As I looked around, I became aware of just how isolated and miniscule my existence was. Engulfed in the desert's parched silence, I was nothing but another grain of sand in the wind.

The End