A day at the beach

She caught my eye, as I scanned from behind my oversized sun hat and shades, the calm morning waves of the Arabian Sea. Really, what else does one do after a scrumptious breakfast on a holiday in Goa? A young girl, dressed, if oddly for the beach, walking briskly, her flat, rubber slippers making their way with purpose, through the washed-up filth on the sand. Slicked black hair, pulled neatly back into a fat braid, flowers for adornment, a modest, yet bright traditional Indian outfit, the salwar kameez, with its dupatta tied in a knot over one hip and pinned in place on the opposite shoulder. A thin, plastic bracelet on each arm and the look was complete. She carried a small blue bottle and with a broad grin came over to where I was lounging under the cool palm trees while watching the kids build up and break down their sand castles. "Massage, Didi?", she asked, "say yes, you will feel so relaxed. I will rub your feet, I have oil. Discount for couples and children". It all tumbled out, almost too rehearsed, her earnest sales pitch. I refused politely, somewhat firmly, switched on my trained deadpan look used to dealing with roadside / traffic light vendors, selling mostly useless flavours-of-the-week. She pleaded "it’s already 9 am Didi but I haven’t earned anything", and in a moment, the little ones joined the chorus, "we've never seen a massage Mumma!" (and for good reason, I remind them). Another glance at her cheerful face and I resigned myself to accepting her offer. She sat down quickly and softly, no mat. I gave her my cushion, she smiled shyly and said she wasn't supposed to touch anything that belonged to the beachfront properties. In fact, she explained, she wasn't meant to be seen or heard. She was persona non grata in Goa. A 20-minute foot rub turned into a game of 20 questions. Where are you from? Who brought you here? She's one of many, I learnt. From rural drought-prone Karnataka, a neighbouring state. A sad, hard existence, with illiteracy and poverty as its pillars. Accompanied an aunt to Goa shortly after coming of age and ended up staying with her, training to supplement the meagre earnings of her landless, yet, agriculture-dependent family, burdened with too many children, dealing with the absence of safety nets and enduring a vicious cycle of economic and social challenges. She was pulled out of her village school early to help look after her younger siblings, she couldn't read English or Hindi and could only do basic arithmetic. Like counting her earnings at sunset. Her co-worker joined her a few minutes later, abruptly breaking our conversation, and narrated the same story. They start their day early, getting themselves dressed in a room they share with at least 5 or 6 other adults, finish household chores, whip up a meal and set off to earn their daily bread. They aren't protected by a worker's union, they have no rest areas, no access to restrooms. No water or food while they work the beach. While we sip on our cocktails and coconut water concoctions. They have to fight off the police who claim they are stealing jobs from local youth. Yet, it’s this protector of the people that will, week after week, extort commissions from these and other migrant labourers against the threat of lock-ups, beatings or worse. She has to push away customers demanding more than a massage. Above all, she had to brush aside the exploitation, the harassment, the gender biases that defined her workday – had she succumbed to any of these, she couldn’t make a living. I find my toes curling up at the lack of dignity, at the lack of sensitivity, at the lack of opportunity and equality. She has no time for dreams or desires. When she goes back to her town during the monsoon (off season in coastal Goa), she has to help out with farming activities there. She knows she has a small window to earn and save, if at all, - turn 18 (possibly earlier) and she will be married (off), she will have no choice but to bear heirs and as a young mother, it will be frowned upon for her to spend her day rubbing the legs and arms of scantily clad men and women. I probe her for more. How much do you make in a month? Do you have a bank account? Do you have an Aadhaar card? The nonchalance of her responses makes me uncomfortable. She isn't permitted to stake a claim on her hard-earned money. There are debts - her father who has to pay the aunt for taking his daughter under her wing, the landlord who permitted her to stay in a rent-free shanty when she first arrived in Goa, cuts for hotel staff for allowing her to solicit clients in their premises, the list is endless. She stared at the notes I gave her - what she asked for and then a few more - "Advance for tomorrow's session, didi?" she seemed optimistic. No, no, I said, this is for you, buy yourself something. Her eyes thanked me, and in a blink, she was gone. Just like that. As we snaked in and out of lush landscapes in Goa, Maharashtra and Karnataka while driving back to Pune after a sublime week by the seaside, I remembered her frequently. Why are the trappings of modern, urban living which, with all its faults, so far removed from the realities of rural hardships? Only a fortnight later, one evening in early November as I watched our PM launch his surgical strikes on black money, the parallel economy and its links to terrorism, I thought instantly of my Goan wonder-girl. What will she do tomorrow? Who will protect her? She, like millions in our country, are daily wage earners, with no nest-egg to fall back on. Victims and perpetrators of a cash-only system, which was shot down, overnight. Demonetization, at worst, is an inconvenience for me. My passive patriotism extends to not joining queues for cash withdrawal and encouraging my neighbourhood grocery stores to switch to digital payments. The “go-cashless” model, banking reforms and systemic overhaul will be implemented in due course, so I can only hope that she has found a way to face this hurdle and tide over it in the short to medium term, all while being at the mercy of the cash-strapped tourist on a break, from it all. The bottle of oil which she carries with her had a picture of a parachute on it. How ironic - will it liberate her?