All That Glitters

By Ananya Shah

The ceaseless hammering of the heavy rain is punctuated rhythmically by thuds and groans, each followed by muffled cheers. 16-year-old Anjali ducks and runs to the front door of one of Darukhana’s many monstrous warehouses in search of shelter. It’s nearing a year of living on the harsh streets of Mumbai after her abusive parents kicked her out for disobeying them one too many times.

She presses her ear against the door, weighing the pros and cons of entering. She clutches her fraying backpack containing all her belongings- a stolen set of clothes, forty-three rupees and a rapidly diminishing bar of soap. Her money is running out, and she feels a growing sense of desperation, not wanting to go back to scavenging for scraps from dustbins.

The hostile sounds emanating from the warehouse give her pause- Anjali decides against going in. Turning, she stumbles on a pebble. She places a hand on the steel door to steady herself, and to her dismay it gives way. The door flies open with a loud clang.

A group of rowdy men stand in the centre of the warehouse, surrounding a makeshift ring within which a thick wad of money is being handed to a smug-looking fighter by an officiator. At least ten thousand rupees! Another fighter, presumably the loser, is curled up on the floor, shivering and bleeding. At the moment, all eyes are on Anjali. The eyes of dangerous, muscular, large men.

Making an impromptu decision, Anjali steps forward and says boldly, “I challenge you for that money.” A stunned silence follows. The crowd breaks out into murmurs and disbelieving laughs. Scornfully, the victor says, “Beti, this is not your scene. Scat!” This only fuels Anjali’s determination, and she stands her ground, sticking out her chin.

Clearing his throat, the officiator says to the victor, “Bhai, a challenge is a challenge. If you back out, the money will be hers.” Scoffing, the man shakes his head and gestures for Anjali to join him in the ring.

What have I gotten myself into? Anjali thinks, as the previous loser is carried out of the ring, now unconscious.

In the ring, she faces her opponent, assessing his strengths: he is buff, so avoiding his punches is high on her to-do list, but it also means he will not be able to move fast. Anjali is scrawny and agile, used to dodging vehicles on the street. In Mumbai traffic, quick reflexes are essential for survival.

“3, 2, 1, start!” The officiator counts down. Circling each other, they have their guards up. Closing in, her opponent curls his hand into a fist, aiming for the bridge of Anjali’s nose. Ducking at the last second, she gets behind him and swings at his ear. The punch connects and he groans in pain. Adrenaline flows through Anjali, and as he’s wincing, she aims a kick at his knees. He falls to the floor, clutching his legs. With a final blow to the nose, he passes out. The crowd erupts in incredulous cheers at the unexpected turn of events. Anjali is as astonished as they are. In a state of delirious happiness, she stumbles towards the officiator.

“I present to you, the winner!” The officiator raises Anjali’s hand in victory, and then presses the money into her palm. She places it in her backpack carefully, wrapping it tightly in clothes. She begins to make her way out of the warehouse, but a hand falls on her shoulder. Anjali turns to find a kind-looking middle-aged gentleman. His eyes crinkle as he introduces himself as Pashupatinath Pandey, a respected businessman. Impressed at her grit, he offers her a job- he suspects she’s in need of money and a place to stay, and he’s spot on.

This day is full of surprises, thinks Anjali. She accepts readily. Mr. Pandey will let her know the job specifics at the office. He assures her the role will be well within her capabilities.

She gets in the car with him, and they drive for a few minutes. During the ride, he asks her about her past. Where she’s from, why she’s homeless, the long and short of it. He sympathises with her, and she bursts into tears, releasing all her pent-up frustration. Comforting her, he wipes her face with tissues. She feels safer with him than she has ever felt with anybody.

The car slows to a halt. A security guard opens the door for her, and she steps out of the car, both wondrous and intimidated. Office buildings tower above her, thousands of feet high. She is mesmerized by the impossibly shiny combination of steel and glass, so alien to her.

“Bhaiyya, escort her to the twelfth floor living quarters,” Mr. Pandey tells the guard. He tells Anjali to freshen up in her new home before he briefs her about her role. She only half-hears him, distracted by the portraits decorating the pristine walls of the office.

In a daze, she follows the guard to her new room. It even has a bathroom, just for her!

She washes up and changes her clothes, stashing her newly-won money in her pocket. Hearing Mr. Pandey’s voice outside her room, she steps outside, feeling refreshed. He’s just around the corner, talking to someone dressed in a suit.

“Sir, I’ve found the perfect candidate for the job.” Anjali’s heart swells with pride. It wouldn’t hurt to eavesdrop some more.

He continues speaking. “She’ll easily fit in the vents above the bank vault. She’s short and quick, so she won’t get caught either.”

As it dawns on her what her actual task is, she feels a growing sense of dread and betrayal. The walls she first thought of as ‘pristine’ now seem to be closing in on her; white, menacing and suffocating. The portraits that once looked bland appear to have threatening expressions.

How will she escape this time?

By Ananya Shah