Every muscle in Geetha’s body ached as she pushed herself out of bed at 4 AM, the quiet predawn hours before reality came back hitting hard. "Safest time to have a bath in peace, with no one to peek and trouble," she murmured, already folding her thin mattress and clearing her one-room dwelling.
The dull brown iron rod made a feeble attempt to heat the water; it remained lukewarm. This would have to do, given she had to start her day soon. She unwrapped her nightdress, rushed through the cold bath before she could change her mind, then changed into her khaki uniform and a faded white shirt missing a button. Her long, beautiful tresses were tied and pinned into a neat bun.
She boiled rice on one side and made tea on the other stove. A glance at the time on her mobile told her she was already late. Packing her freshly made rice with the leftover dal and gulping down her tea, she exited her home to start her day.
The train journey was two hours long from her tiny village to the hustle and bustle of Bengaluru. A year since she started driving an auto-rickshaw, and yet the stares wouldn't stop. She was tired of them, but it wasn't much of a choice. "Let them," she convinced herself, "it doesn't matter." Clenching her fist tight around her purse, she ignored the wandering eyes, the whispers, and tried to focus on the world outside.
Savitha Aunty, one of the few women in her neighbourhood who supported and encouraged her, insisted she read at least one book each month. "Schools are for the rich, Geetha," she'd claimed. "The best way to learn is to keep reading, letting the written world take flight through your imagination." Geetha was a slow reader, but what else could she do during this two-hour ride to work?
Her station arrived. She got down swiftly to exit the station and start her day. She parked the auto at a fellow friend’s place in the city, saving a lot on cheaper rent outside Bengaluru.
She reached Rita’s parlour, made small talk with her friend. After offering a Five Star chocolate to her kid, she took the keys and started her auto. Five minutes later, she already had a ride.
She drove to the pick-up place, putting on some good old tracks by her favourite singer Honey Singh. As ‘Blue Eyes’ played in her earphones, she arrived at the pick-up spot: another grand gated community with the same manicured gardens she saw every day.
The rider was a well-dressed woman in her late thirties. She placed her laptop bag and her purse inside, shared the pin. She looked at Geetha a few seconds extra. Something Geetha was trying to get used to, but it just irritated her. She hid her irritation behind a half-smile and started the ride.
"How long have you been riding an auto?" The woman in blue jeans asked Geetha.
It always started with small talk and ended with them asking more and more personal stuff: how she ended up driving an auto, who was in her family, were they okay with her driving. As if they were planning to write a book on her. She wasn't that important, so why would anyone want to write on her? she wondered. Everyone was just fascinated by what she did for a living, as if begging were the only obvious and universal thing she was meant to do.
She had learned through multiple experiences: the less she talked, the better. So, she did her usual, acting like she didn't hear anything and continued to ride.
The rider seemed a little pissed. She was sure she'd been loud enough to be heard, yet here she was, ignored by an auto driver. She put on her headphones and got busy in her own world.
Geetha was happy. This always worked. Yes, people felt she was arrogant. But better to be seen as arrogant than to be forced to reveal her troubled past. She had learned this the hard way: the more you revealed about yourself, the more power they had over you.
Another fifteen minutes and they had arrived at the destination. The woman in blue jeans paid her a little extra and went about her way. This too troubled Geetha. She wasn't begging on the streets. She was working hard, yet here she was being paid a little extra, something she didn't ask for. Of course, the little extra helped her. She was grateful, but at the same time, she felt like she was on the streets and someone had given her a ten-rupee tattered note. It was an insult she had learned to live with because it came with a few extra rupees. These extra rupees, which felt like alms to her, had paid for her younger brother's school fees last year.
"Stop complaining." She accused herself of trying to have it all.
It was time for breakfast. She went across to the nearest tiffin centre, asked for her usual idly sambhar. The eatery was crowded with daily wage workers, auto walas, and bus drivers. All too tired and pre-occupied with their own struggles to stare at hers. In the crowded, sweat-smelling eatery, she felt far more relaxed than in the comfortable cushioned seat in the train.
The day went by, and with each ride, Geetha became more and more occupied with her own thoughts, caring less about the occasional stares.
The sun called it a day and went to prepare for its sleep. After her last ride to Cox Town, she signed out from the auto app. She drove back to her friend's place to catch up over tea.
Rita had already pulled down the shutters and locked her parlour. She was simmering tea, waiting for Geetha. Her son was at her neighbour’s place to watch the evening match, giving them a small break to enjoy their tea in silence.
Geetha parked her auto. Relieved, another day had come to an end. She went inside the house, looking forward to a cup of elaichi tea with her friend.
"How was your day?" asked Rita, pouring tea into two slightly chipped tea cups.
"The same. Bengaluru traffic isn’t getting better, and neither are the stares." She blew slowly into the cup before taking a small sip.
"How much extra did you make today?" Rita knew how this bothered her.
"Three hundred and twenty rupees. All tips," Geetha muttered, finishing her cup.
"Remind me again, how is this bad?"
"I know they all feel a little self-righteous after giving a tip. As if they are helping build a new society. They can give as much as they want, but will they stop glaring their eyes out? No, never."
"Maybe it’s their guilt that’s making them tip you a little extra. Don’t bother. It does help you with all your expenses, right? So let it be." Rita consoled her, clearing the tea cups.
"Yes, I know. But it just feels uncomfortable. I wish I was invisible. I just want to go about my day without wondering who is looking at me, talking about me. Leave it, it’s too much to ask for in this world, I know."
She said her goodbyes to Rita and walked to the railway station. Another two-hour journey until she could change into her favourite saree and go see a movie with her brother. The book rested in her big purse as she dozed off to sleep. Savitha Aunty’s anger could wait. Her eyes could not.
She reached home, tired. But she had promised she would take Harish, her fifteen-year-old younger brother, to the latest Salman Khan movie. She heard it wasn’t very good. But more than the movie, she looked forward to a place where no one looked at her but rather at the big dark screen in front, and enjoyed the stale popcorn.
Her day job needed her to wear the same old khaki trousers and white shirt, a staple uniform for the drivers. But evening was when she came out the most alive. All the stares in the world didn't matter when she walked in a saree.
She was a woman. It didn't matter if society didn't agree. She was not assigned female at birth, but every fragment of her being made her feel so. She had spent too many years as Girish, lost in this world. As Geetha, she had found herself, and she was not ready to bend, no matter how many stares and whispers it brought.
She changed into her favourite red saree, put on a big, bold maroon bindi, and pulled out her bangle box to see what would match her attire. The green bangles were too bright for an evening. So, she picked up the light orange ones, decked her hands up, and eagerly waited for her brother to arrive.
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