The gods smiled once

Chink! Jalaja could hear the coins slipping from her brother's okra fingers to clink and roll across the floor of the handkerchief-sized verandah. They were among the lucky ones. Most houses in this patchy backwater were mere cavities where their neighbours huddled with their cattle and children. 

"Manu! The food is ready. Come and get it before it turns cold." It was futile to shout.

"You have eaten, I suppose?" Manu shouted back. She did not answer. There was only half a gourd and tomato between them. Finely chopping both, she had tossed the vegetables onto an old iron pan with coriander and chillies. Her own lunch comprised a single chapati sprinkled with salt. 

She had to complete Aruna aunty's cotton quilt by tomorrow morning at any cost. Aruna aunty's NGO had proved a boon, although it was now tiring her hands out. 

The money coming from the NGO was adequate, just enough to cover her expenses. Just hers. She knew, though, that her finished products fetched a higher premium for Aruna aunty. What she earned was a pittance.

She bent over the tablecloth, her eyebrows tightening as she tried to get the cross-stitch right. 

Working with the NGO had freed her of Leela mausi's tailoring shop, where work hours had been stretchable with only a half-hour lunch break. Working for long hours on Leela mausi's giant pedestal sewing machine had caused her legs to ache. Prolonged hunching over the unrelenting brute had sparked a protest in the shoulder and eyes. 

"Manu!" she called out once again. But Manu had already shot off on his bicycle to the construction site, about two miles away, where he worked as a contract labourer. 

Come to think of it, they were lucky to own a bicycle. Most families in the neighbourhood could not afford one. Just as most families could not afford a toilet in their homes.

The meagre luxuries were attributed to Bapu, who had been the local temple's head priest. He had also been head of the charitable trust running the temple. Death had claimed him early. 

Jalaja remembered her father well, better than Manu did. Manu had been too young, all of five, when dengue claimed Bapu. Dengue had taken many lives in the locality that year. Bapu, racked with severe joint and muscle pain, had lain in bed shivering throughout the night before gasping his last breath.

Looking out the window, she could see the outline of the temple he had fought so hard to erect over the corner of the land claimed by Ram Kumar.

The land did not belong to Ram Kumar; it belonged to the government. Wresting it from Ram Kumar and his musclemen before acquiring sanction from the government had been a protracted battle. Bapu's dogged determination and stern refusal to grease the right palms had paid off in the end. 

The temple had sustained them, attracting the largesse of the community. But not for long. Bapu's untimely death had thrown them back into poverty. Few villagers wanted to attend the prayer sessions of a female priest. 

"Where will the men go to pray when the head priest is menstruating?" the village head had objected. 

Donations had dribbled down to a handful of coins. Manu, the stencil image of his father, had shown no inclination towards priesthood. 

The temple, now moss-covered, has long been aching for a fresh coat of paint.

Having dropped out of school, Jalaja took to sewing to eke out a living. It was at school that she had discovered her penchant for the needle. An indifferent student, she had excelled in the sewing class. 

Jalaja's reputation as a seamstress had spread like the local itar within the village and beyond in no time. Her hand-embroidered curtains and bedspreads flaunting artfully executed patchwork of tattered cloth were hailed at exhibitions in the city. Her sewing machine never stopped clacking with neighbours flocking in droves to her humped dwelling. Be it blind stitch, quilting, hemming, smocking, or embroidery, her needle flew deftly, yielding exquisite outcomes on a basic, manual sewing machine that Bapu had bought for her when she was thirteen. 

But she continued to dream of the Japanese sewing machine she had spotted in the city.

It was at an exhibition during one of her rare visits to the city that she had set her eyes on the wonder machine. She had exhaled slowly, feeling her breath exiting her mouth and nostrils, as she stared at its cream-and-white body reflecting the lights of the exhibition hall. 

"Have you ever seen such a huge workspace?" the saleswoman's sing-song voice had bobbed across the hall like a cork caught by a sea wave. "And those buttons," she had run nail-painted fingers lightly by the side, "are for storing designs- as many as you like. Besides," the saleswoman had continued in her bushy-tailed way, "it has in-built designs of its own. And IT is simply great for large projects, like quilt designing."

Jalaja had looked away, sighting the price tag. That night, she dreamt of sewing machines, patterns, and quilts.

Last night she dreamt about sewing a giant-sized price tag onto a machine swallowed by clods. And it was last night she and Manu had watched as the Prime Minister announced the demonetization of Rs. 500 and Rs. 1000 banknotes on Bapu's old TV set. They had watched the stampede inside jewellery stores as people rushed to convert their cash into gold. 

She didn't get to watch much television these days. Besides, she still needed to embroider the cotton quilt. She would have to ask Aruna aunty for extra time. 

Sleep came early to her tired eyes. 

During breakfast, Manu told her about the massive line-up of cars down the road to the temple. The roar of engines and eye-piercing headlights rushing through the windows had kept him awake. He had run in the temple's direction after the first cry of dawn, stopping short as his eye dropped on the donation box. Rubbing both eyes, he stared at the currency notes peeping truantly from its spare slit. Sacks bloated with Rs. 5000 and Rs. 1000 currency notes stared up at him with lidless eyes.

It was well past the lunch hour by the time they finished counting. 

"Thirteen crore rupees," the branch manager of the bank down the road had declared cryptically., "Besides, temple donations do not invite tax inquiry. So," his deep sigh echoed envy, "all this money is yours…"