Last December

Last December

8 mins
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The bus had started. From my window seat, the scenery out side looked very beautiful. I pulled out my cardigan to keep myself warm in the cold of December. In my mind, I was calculating the time bus would take to reach the destination. Many co-passengers were cozying up in their seats with warm clothes and some sipped hot tea at the road side tea stall, where our bus had stopped for a few minutes.

My eyes were stuck outside the window on December flowers- blueish-purple coloured flowers, can only be seen in the month of December. My maid used to put that on her long braided hair almost everyday throughout December. She coaxes me to do the same. Though I don’t put them on my hair, I like them for their colour.


I was concerned about going to a small place, never visited before. Neither did I know anyone there. The organiser had sent an invitation to me to attend the meeting. One assurance was that a person will come to pick me up from the bus stop. I tried to concentrate on my topic for tomorrow “Empowering through Human Interaction”. After some quiet brainstorming, I was eager to reach my destination. Finally, the bus reached the destination and I got off from the bus.


With a smiling face and a placard in hand the driver was standing just at the right place. I started following him.

“Madam, Madam!” I could hear a voice from behind. I looked back, someone was approaching me. I could not recognise her. A young lady in her twenties. With a big smile and happiness in her eyes that was clearly visible. As I had some time in hand, I requested my driver to allow me some time with her.

She came almost running. “Madam! Do you remember, we met at Bangalore railway station?”

I was confused, trying hard to recollect her face in my memory. Her words were flowing continuously without any break.

“Four years back, you talked to me at the station. I was returning to my native place, Kantabanjhi.”

Some blurred vision resurfaced in my memory. “How are you?”, I asked to hide my inability to recollect her name.

“I’m fine. Now working in a food processing unit nearby, run by an NGO. That day, I saw you and talked to you. That inspired me to do something in my life.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Going to a relative’s house’’ she replied. “Madam, you are big person, you might have forgotten. But I could not.’’

“Madam, we are getting late”, the driver reminded me.

“Take care!’’ I bid her good bye. As I was getting into the car, she passed me a small plastic bag. After the car started moving, I opened the bag to find a gajra made of December flowers. I assumed, it was her way of saying thanks to me.


I had forgotten that incident long back. But, she has treasured it for so long that she could recognise me from behind just in a glance. As I was trying to remember her, the old memories unfolded like the scenes of a movie.


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The train station was crowded. Everyone was in a hurry to reach their destination as early as possible. It was night of 31st December. The time was around 11 pm- the new year was only a few minutes away. I walked with long steps to be a bit of ahead of the crowd and succeeded too. After reaching the pick-up point, I realised the cab will arrive little late, due to heavy Bangalore traffic. It would take around twenty more minutes for the cab to reach. I took a deep breath to cool me down. That helps me to cope with this type of situation. I’m sure, today I would be stuck in this notorious traffic. To ease my tension, I started taking small steps around my luggage.

All of a sudden, I heard some words in Odia, my mother tongue. Even though I hear it in Bangalore very often, I don’t pay much attention. But, this voice attracted me towards it. A curious me looked towards the speakers. A young man in his early twenties with a bag , suitcase and a food packet was talking to a a teenager girl. In that December cold night, they had no winter clothes. Even though it was not freezing cold, winter wear is must in Bangalore to keep yourself warm in December nights.

I felt pity for them. I struggle to accommodate my clothes in the wardrobe at home. But, do not want to part with anything thinking I’ll wear them sometime in future. Next, comes another set of clothes. If my home were close by, surely I would have given some warm clothes to the chudidar-kurta clad girl.

I was curious to talk to her. As the man went to make some enquiry at the counter, I looked at the girl. She was a bit conscious too, sitting next to her luggage, looking around with some kind of fear.

“Where will you go?'' I started the conversation in Odia. “Where is your native place? What are you people doing here in Bangalore?”

I realised, I was bombarding her with too many questions.

She was surprised by my questions. Probably, she could not expect such concern from a person like me -my so called status. To ease her inhibition I smiled even more.

Now she looked a bit comfortable.

"I work here in a construction site.”

Building construction or in a brick klin? I was thinking. Is she a bonded labourer trying to run away? Currently, a burning topic of discussion in Odisha. We are ashamed that we are unable to give employment to everyone within the state. They are going out of state in search of work and many of them as bonded labourers.

All such thoughts were stirring my mind at that moment.

“Are you a bonded labourer?” I asked her eagerly. “Have you studied ? If you study or learn some skills you need not come out for searching jobs and not fall prey to these touts.”

She looked at me, from her looks I was sure that she could not understand what I meant.

“No” was her reply. "I work in a construction site. I’m going to Vizag . From there, I will go to my native village, which is around 400 kilometres away.”

Poverty has brought her to the bigger city looking for employment like any other BPL family. They land up in middle-men's net and brokers make them the bonded labourer.

My cab has come. It won’t wait for my curiosity and concern. My logical mind was warning me against waiting more time there. The roads will be full of traffic, drunk driving check-ups and diversions last years notorious incident is still fresh in everybody's mind. I was getting calls from my family. They were urging me to reach home as soon as possible.

"Will you come back?'' I asked her quickly.

"No", a short reply.

“Good. Do something on your own or work for a known company near your village.”

I looked at her luggage. All her earnings were in that. May be, something for her parents and some thing for her siblings, I have no idea.

The young man came back. He was surprised to see that we both were talking. He inquired something. The girl happily answered him.

"Madam, you are town people, so your Odia will be good. We are from village, so I what you both were talking I was surprised." he said

There was no time to make him understand that communication always does not need to be perfect in language. It is the attitude that matters.

We both were grinning.

It’s time. My luggage was loaded. I bid goodbye to them. Even though I wanted to talk to her for some more time, reluctantly I got into the cab.

"What s your name?"

“Damayanti" pat came the reply.

“Happy new year!” I wished her.

She smilingly acknowledged. She was keenly watching me. A sense of happiness had covered her face. the gloomy picture had gone away long back.

The cab started moving. Damayanti’s face was in front of my eyes throughout my journey.

After few minutes the world will celebrate the new year. Her new year will start only when she meets her parents, her family. Her earning that she is carrying home as a basket of happiness will be be exhausted in some weeks, probably. In a few days, poverty would strike again.

Police were checking and diverting the traffic for a smooth passage to the guests into a five star hotel. I have seen these hotels charge a fortune for few hours. The rich spend money like water for the zero night celebrations, whereas people like Damayanti forget to live their childhood to just fulfil the hunger of their parents and younger siblings, the most basic need of any human being.

I saluted her spirit, and mine too. I could make her happy for a few moments by talking to her, by a simple conversation. It was so simple to get connected and derive happiness from it. People search for happiness at these expensive places in equally expensive drinks. Do they really get happiness? Do they really enjoy? I was asking myself.


These questions were stirring inside me as it does usually. I was supremely happy to end December and to start the new year with an emotional satisfaction. With a contended heart, I reached home.

My maid Malathi had kept a basket of December flowers for me on the table. I was thinking of the gardener who had nurtured the plants to produce the flowers to bloom with their full glory and fragrance.



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