Exploring the evolving relationship between a woman and her neighborhood garbage collector amidst social prejudices.
The telephone rang, breaking the silence of the day. It was my neighbor, Paramjit, calling to express her disapproval. “Did you give Madhu a kambal?” she asked, her voice laced with a frosty undertone. “I thought it must be you. Look, you shouldn’t give her things. It creates problems for the rest of us.” Her irritation was palpable, and I could sense the judgment as she continued, “Your sympathy is wasted on the likes of her. If she has money to buy beedi, she can buy a kambal as well. I thought I had better warn you … Bye.” With a click, the call ended, leaving me feeling defensive and misunderstood.
My first encounter with Madhu occurred the day after we moved into our new house. I opened the window of the bedroom to find her on the veranda, right knee raised, casually smoking a beedi. Anger surged through me; who was she to occupy my space? I demanded she leave, but she remained unfazed, replying, “I always sit here.” I felt defeated, rendered powerless by her refusal. There was no room for negotiation. As she sat there, her elbow resting on her knee and a lit beedi in her fingers, she barked orders at her assistants who sorted through the garbage without lifting their eyes. I closed the shutters, feeling humiliated, wondering how I could endure such disrespect in my new home.
Despite my annoyance, I recognized that moving out over the actions of a koodawali was impractical. The smoke from her beedi wafted through the shutters, intensifying my irritation. That evening, I vented to my husband about Madhu’s insolence. The following morning, an idea struck me: I would enclose the back veranda with metal grills. This would not only provide extra space but also keep Madhu out. My husband, always practical, calculated the costs involved, reassuring me that it would be a worthy investment to avoid ongoing disputes. He even framed it in such a way that I wouldn’t feel guilty about the expense.
Our landlord agreed to the modifications but would not cover the costs, stating it was an unnecessary expense for him. I thought that perhaps Madhu had decided to stay away, but the next day, I spotted her huddled under the sunshade of a nearby house, sipping tea and staring out at the rain with an unreadable expression. I felt a wave of unexpected deflation wash over me. I realized I needed to interact with Madhu, as her team was responsible for garbage collection in our colony. Shy about approaching her directly, I asked my landlady, Komal, to facilitate a conversation.
The next day, when the doorbell rang, I opened the door to find Madhu standing there, her expression neutral as she said simply, “Kooda.” Over the following weeks, I found myself observing Madhu more closely, becoming increasingly fascinated by her life. Through conversations with neighbors, I learned that her husband, Nana, was in charge of garbage collection. They had two daughters, with a third on the way. Nana’s character was questioned; he was described as a good man during sober moments but troubled by alcohol and aggression, often leading to his arrest. Yet, despite her challenges, Madhu managed to ensure that the garbage collection ran smoothly, maintaining the cleanliness of our homes for a modest fee.
Even my neighbors, who typically looked down on her, acknowledged that the service was more efficient under her leadership. Komal once remarked, “You did very well, teaching her a lesson. Till last year, we had to pay only twenty rupees a month. Nana never asked for an increase. But that chudail Madhu!” Her resentment was clear, yet I found myself increasingly conflicted about my previous judgments and the dynamics that played out in our community.
