The Dagger

“Sheilaben,” A shrill voice called out, with a hint of a British accent. “This table is not fully dusted.”

“Ha memsaab.” Sheila went to the table with her dusting cloth. It was the story of her life. The table was not fully dusted. The rent was not fully paid. The electric bill was overdue. The dinner she brought home every day was not enough to fill the stomach of her eleven-year-old son, Ajay.

Ever since her husband had died in a local train accident six months ago, life had become a daily struggle to survive. He was a good man, her husband. He hadn’t deserved the macabre death of being pushed onto the tracks at Dadar station, and being run over by the speeding train.

She had mourned his death for weeks, being consoled by relatives, neighbors and friends. Then, the debt collectors arrived. Her husband had taken loans from a few different people, using the money to pay the bribes needed to get his cushy job pushing papers around at the municipal office.

Sheila stalled and negotiated, but she couldn’t fend them off for long. She sold all her wedding jewelry, and paid off whosoever she could.

            It was not enough. Still some loans remained. Like the little particles of dust that remained on the tables, no matter how hard she dusted.

“And don’t forget to wipe the windows properly.” Memsaab said.

“Ha memsaab.”

            Memsaab and her husband had recently returned to Mumbai after many years in London. They had a penthouse flat in Andheri West, and wanted somebody to keep the house clean, and attend to the needs of their son. They preferred someone who spoke English. Sheila had studied for few years in an English medium school, and could speak passable English.

            Becoming a glorified maid was not something that Sheila had imagined her life would come to.

            She was down on her haunches, wiping the floor-to-ceiling windows, while her memsaab sat on the sofa, flipping pages of a magazine.

            “Sheila,” Memsaab said. “Come here one minute.”

           

            “What happened memsaab?”

            “Come, I have something for you.” Memsaab reached into a plastic bag, and produced a silk scarf, sky-blue in color.

            “Thank you memsaab,” Sheila wrapped the scarf around her neck. The cloth felt soft against her skin.

            “Happy Ganesh Chaturthi,” Memsaab smiled. “And I’m sorry we couldn’t give you the loan you asked for. Business has been tight for Saab. When he gets back to Mumbai by Diwali time, we’ll give you the loan.”

            “Ha memsaab.” Sheila nodded. Diwali was two months away. Her debt collectors wouldn’t wait that long. Her landlord definitely wouldn’t let her stay that long without getting the past due rent.

            “That’s a nice saree you’re wearing.” Memsaab said. It was a purple saree with white floral patterns.

            “Thank you memsaab.”

            “Tell me, how’s your son doing?” Memsaab asked.

            “Ajay is doing fine.” Sheila mumbled, concealing a grimace. Ajay wore the same dirty school uniform every day, because his poor mother couldn’t afford a new one. They would probably kick him out of school, if she didn’t pay up the full tuition fees soon.

            “Good, good.” Memsaab said, and went back to her magazine.

            Sheila resumed her cleaning. She had asked everyone she knew for money. Her employers, her neighbors and her friends. Everyone was either unwilling or unable to help.

            All she had gotten for her desperate pleas was that stupid blue silk scarf.

           

            She closed her eyes, and thought about her plan. It was a last resort, something that she wouldn’t do unless there was no alternative.

There really was no frickin alternative. It had come to this.

           

She glanced at the memsaab, who was leaning back on the sofa, with her feet up on the coffee table

After finishing the windows, Sheila went to the study, a square-shaped room at one end of the flat. She dusted the wooden bookshelf, and the long tables along the walls.

There were several decorative items on the tables, which the Saab used to show off to his guests. There was an ornate crystal giraffe, a silver sculpture of a galloping horse, a hand-carved Ganpati idol.

And the object she had been eyeing for weeks.

She looked back at the door to the study. She stood still, listening for any sounds.

Satisfied that the coast was clear, she turned her attention to the dagger.

It was a small metal blade, curved at the tip. The bronze handle had various symbols engraved on it. She had overheard the Saab say that he had purchased the dagger in an auction, and it had belonged to the legendary Tipu Sultan. He even showed the tiny bloodstains around the tip, to prove that it had been used in the sultan’s battles against the British.

But, what drew Sheila to the knife was the red ruby inserted at the point where the handle met the blade. The stone used to glitter in the afternoon sunlight, while she did her daily dusting. She didn’t know much about Tipu Sultan, but her gut told her that the red stone had to be valuable.

Sheila stared at the dagger. She clenched her fist to stop her hand from shaking. The arrangements had been made. There was no going back now.

She slid it into her handbag and closed the zipper.

Her breathing became rapid. It’ll be fine, she told herself. Nobody in the house went to the study, except during dinner parties, which wouldn’t happen till Diwali.

The tiny black eyes of the Ganpati idol seemed to be looking right at her.

“Sheilaben.”

Sheila spun around, dropping her handbag to the floor.

“…I forgot to tell you,” Memsaab was saying, “There are some samosas in the fridge. Put them in Kunal’s lunch dabba tomorrow, okay?”

“Ha memsaab,” Sheila exhaled, picking up the handbag.

She looked at the Ganpati again. Within few days, it would be visarjan time, and thousands of people would take many such idols and immerse them into the water in grand processions.

She knelt down in front of the idol, her eyes seeking some kind of reassurance.  Ganeshji just stared impassively back at her.

Sheila finished the rest of her housework as fast as she could.

“Okay, memsaab.” She said, putting on her chappals, near the door.

“See you tomorrow,” Memsaab said.

While walking towards the train station, Sheila’s mobile phone rang.

“Ha, hello.”

“Do you have it?” A gruff male voice asked.

“Yes, I have it.”

“Meet us in one hour where I told you.”

The line went dead.

The caller was a man named Sushank, who worked as a driver in a nearby high-rise building. She had been introduced to him by one of her neighbors. He didn’t have any money to lend her, but had asked her about the showpiece items at her employer’s house. He knew a guy who would buy such stuff for a good price.

At first, Sheila had been appalled at the suggestion. But a month later, she felt like she was at the edge of the cliff, and her life was teetering on the brink.

She had called Sushank and told him about the dagger. Not wanting to hold onto the thing for a minute longer than needed, she had scheduled the meeting for that evening after work.

Sheila caught the fast train from Andheri to Churchgate and walked to the meeting place.

She sat in the Starbucks cafe, sipping her coffee and staring out of the window. The blood stained knife lay next to her handbag, covered with her blue silk scarf

The other customers at the café were all college kids dressed in flashy tops and jeans. She adjusted her saree, feeling thoroughly out of place. To justify her presence there, she bought a cup of coffee. It tasted bitter and was not even hot enough.

“Sheilaben.”

Sheila looked up. Sushank was wearing a white shirt over faded jeans. With him was a short, stout man with a thick moustache. He wore a blue shirt, and had gold rings on three of his fingers. Slung on his shoulder was a black rectangular bag, the kind she had seen the Saab carry his laptop computer in.

Sheila gripped the dagger tightly, as the two men sat down at her table.

“This is Ankur bhai.” Sushank tilted his head towards his companion.

She looked at Ankur bhai and nodded.

“What are you just sitting there woman?” Sushank demanded. “Where is your bloody knife?”

“Have you brought money?” She asked

“Yes, yes, we have money.” Sushank said. Ankur bhai tapped his fingers on the laptop bag.

Sheila hesitated for a moment. She thought she saw an odd glance exchanged between the two men.

“C’mon, C’mon, we don’t have all day.” Sushank said.

Slowly, Sheila lifted the dagger, unwrapped it from her scarf, and placed it on the table.

Ankur bhai ran his hands over the blade, peered at the handle, and then at the ruby.

“How much you think?” Sushank asked.

Ankur bhai shrugged. “I can take it off her hands for 4.”

“4?” Sheila asked. “4 lakhs?”

Ankur bhai just looked across at her.

“That’s too less.” Sheila said.

“That’s the best price you’ll get.”

“C’mon,” Sheila lifted the dagger. “Did you see this shiny red jewel? It sparkles so much every day.”

Ankur bhai twirled his moustache.

“This dagger belonged to Tipu Sultan, you know. He used it while fighting against the British. See, there are blood stains also.”

“Who told you that?” Ankur bhai eyed her with one eyebrow slightly raised.

“The Saab where I work tells the story to all his guests.”

Ankur bhai toyed with the dagger, “5.”

“The red thing has to be worth more.” Sheila protested. “Make it 8.”

Ankur bhai brought his elbows on the table. “No one cares about Tipu Sultan and all. This will be tough to sell in the market.”

He scratched his cheek. “6 is my final offer.”

“Otherwise, I’m going.” He started to push his chair back.

“No, no Ankur bhai,” Sushank touched his arm. “She’ll take that much. Sheilaben, don’t be stupid. Do you want to sell the bloody thing or not?”

Sheila looked at Sushank, and then at Ankur bhai. “Fine.”

Ankur bhai took a few stacks of notes from his laptop bag, and put them into a plastic bag. He slid the money across the table, and picked up the dagger.

Sheila opened the plastic bag under the table. There were bundles of thousand rupee notes. She started counting them.

Ankur bhai stood up. “It’s all there, don’t worry.”

Sheila looked up and saw a tiny glint in his eyes. Sushank nodded to her. “Ha, ha, its all fine, Sheilaben.”

He stood up. “You know where to find me.”

“Okay,” Sheila nodded.

Both the men exited the café. Sheila counted the money to her satisfaction, and then stuffed it into her handbag. She finished her last gulp of coffee, and looked around. All the kids seemed to be busy chatting and laughing in their little groups, oblivious of her presence.

She got up and walked onto the street. A wave of elation spread over her. The money in her bag was enough to pay off her remaining debts, the rent, the school fees, and there would still be more leftover.

A cacophony of car horns blared all around her. Through the glass window of some clothing store, she saw a male mannequin wearing a smart blue checked shirt and corduroy trousers. On an impulse, Sheila went inside, and found the shirt that was on display. Ajay deserved a new shirt.

In front of her in the checkout line, she saw a small boy playing with his mother’s dupatta. The boy looked just like the memsaab’s son, Kunal, whom she was supposed to pack samosas for tomorrow.

Sheila shifted her feet uneasily. What’s done is done, she told herself. Memsaab could always buy another dagger or anything else they wanted.

She reached the front of the line, and placed the shirt on the counter.

“It’s 30% discount today, maam,” The girl at the counter said.

“Discount?”

“Yes, maam,” The girl said. “Happy Ganesh Chaturthi.”

“Happy Ganesh Chaturthi,” Sheila mumbled, and handed over two thousand rupee notes.

“Show me those notes,” A man dressed in a shirt and tie, came up to them from behind the counter. His name tag indicated that he was a store manager.

He took the notes from the girl, and held them up against the light. Frowning, he went to a computer and started typing something.

He came back to the counter. “I’m sorry, maam, but these notes are fake.”

The color drained from Sheila’s face. “What??”

“These fake 1000 rupee notes are all over nowadays. We’ve been asked to be careful, maam. I checked these against the RBI’s blacklisted serial numbers.”

Sheila stared at him, her mouth wide open.

“Do you have any other notes, maam?”

With quivering hands, Sheila gave him another note from her handbag.

He repeated the procedure, and came back with a shake of his head. “I’m sorry maam, this is also fake.”

Sheila couldn’t breathe. She felt all the muscles in her body contracting.

“Somebody must have given you a bad batch of notes, maam.”

Sheila managed a weak nod. She went out of the store, and just walked around randomly on the road.

Her head was spinning with all kinds of thoughts. Ankur bhai had swindled her. Her instincts had told her there was something wrong about him. And that bastard Sushank. She would chase him down.

She kicked an empty plastic bottle lying on the road.

“Aaargh,” She yelled out loud.

She exhaled heavily. Suddenly becoming conscious of people around staring at her, she slinked into a quiet side gali.

She slumped down to the pavement. She took out a bunch of the fake notes, and flung them around.

How could this happen to her? How could she be so stupid?

She put her hands on her head. A blue silk scarf flapped on the ground next to her. She picked it up. Memsaab had always treated her well. Maybe, she genuinely intended to give the loan by Diwali. What would Ajay think of her if he knew what she had done to try to pay his school fees?

            The sounds of some chanting interrupted her brooding trance.

            “Ganpati Bappa, Morya.”

            “Mangal Murti, Morya.”

            Sheila stood up slowly, and walked to the main road. A procession of people carried a large Ganpati idol, and chanted in unison. Some people always did their visarjan early.

            She looked at the Ganpati idol being held aloft. The elephant god’s trunk curved left, and the palm of his right hand was held up in blessing. Her eyes locked onto the unblinking black pupils of Ganeshji.

            She knew she had gotten what she deserved.