Privileged

The alarm kept blaring as I struggled to wake up. I stretch and yawn and eye the screen of my phone. It's the weekend, and I forgot to turn my alarm off. Cursing myself, I get up, thinking of the long to-do list I had made for the weekend. Weekdays are for seventeen hours of work each day, so weekends are our time to fuel up for the week. I planned to do my laundry, do some grocery shopping, and, if time permits after a doctor's appointment, cook myself a healthy meal. With that in mind, I turn on the cold shower for a quick bath. Then, as I gobble down the cereal with cold milk, I start scrolling through the apps on my phone. My eyes stop at the news of an encounter. I am ecstatic. Finally, a bad man has been put to death. My country is not safe for women and children; perhaps this one execution without process is all it needed to remind men to fear consequences. The annoying comment section was full of people who complained about everything. They are never happy. They are questioning whether a rapist was guilty and why due process was not followed. It would have taken months to hang the man, so what is the issue? He was killed by the police. They are claiming there are many fake convictions in our largest jail. Such propaganda needs to stop. A news portal's social media shouts ecstatically about the man being killed while escaping. I feel relieved for the family of the victim. I put on my skinny shorts, teaming them with a tube top and a pair of earrings and took my tote bag to go shopping in the supermarket. Today was a day of discounts. As I walk through the aisle of empty vegetable baskets, I see people grumbling and complaining as the staff announces that, due to a farmer's protest about prices, the vegetables had not arrived that day. Panic sets in. Did it mean we had to go to the muddy, dirty local market? No, someone says, there are no vegetables there either. Unbothered, I pick up a bunch of ready-to-cook packets to serve me for the week. I don't like vegetables anyway. I hear someone behind me say, “What are they protesting about anyway? Prices are way high.”
" Yes, someone else said, but most of it goes to middlemen and not them." 
“That's not our issue.” The first person retorts. I agree. It's not my problem. I am sure our government won't let us starve or let the vegetable flow decrease. I walk back to my car, putting on my mask. The air is heavy to breath and my eyes tear up despite the sunglasses. I needed to carry my air humidifier with me. As I approach the car, a few teenagers run to me. I assume them to be beggars and shove them away as one of them says in proper English, “We are collecting signatures for our protest against the education system." I stop and stare at the teens. Their eyes are full of a hope I recognise from eras ago. I am amused. " Did you think I was a student?” I laugh. “ I don't even know any student or what your issue is about.”
“It’s about paper leaks, ma'am. It's about the future of the doctors and engineers of this country.”
“You mean the good ones who escape abroad?” I shrug. “Sorry, I do not know your issue or politics. Excuse me, this pollution is making me uncomfortable.” I get into my car and turn on the air purifier and conditioner. I can finally take off my mask and breathe. 
I watch the teens approach another group of people. This time, with kids. I shake my head and start my car. I have a doctor's appointment in the evening. I need to have a meal before that. As I approach the drive-through elite American fast food brand, I see children in tattered clothes approaching cars, pressing their dirty noses against the clean glasses and asking for money. Oh no, they are asking for food. Some of them are really young. I grab a packet of biscuits from my tote, half eaten the previous day during one of my meetings. I lower my window just a little, enough to pass the biscuit on to the children without physical contact, and I pull the window up again. They share a few biscuits as I eye them in my rear-view mirror. I took my meal and found a parking space to eat in peace, and turned on some music. That's when I felt another tap on my window. Annoyed that the children were back, I looked up to find my old classmate smiling at me. She had no mask on; to my surprise, I did not know how she could inhale the smog. I put my mask on and opened the car door. She came for a hug, but I shook her hand. After all, the clothes she wore did not escape me. She was coming from the protests in the middle of the capital, her voice hoarse from shouting slogans, the badge on her shirt speaking about rights and justice. I didn't want the germs she carried on me. She smiled as she said she spotted me in the driveway. Her children were in the restaurant next door with her husband. She stopped the conversation when I was about to tell her about my big promotion and handed the children some rations as they flocked around her. 
“What are you doing?” I asked, astonished. “Don't you know there's a vegetable crisis going on? Save those for yourself.” She smiled and shook her head. “I am aware of the farmer protest. In fact, did you know these children’s fathers once ploughed the lands that are now acquired by the government? Some factories will turn up there, but their skill sets will no longer be needed. So they have turned up in numbers in the city to beg.” And filthy our views. I kept the thought to myself. “Here's my number. In case you ever want to come by and join the hunger strike.”
"  What hunger strike?" I was clueless, and I could see her judgmental glare at me. “Oh, you do not know about the hunger strike to demand better education and healthcare from the government?”
" Oh, I didn't. Actually, I have no problem with my healthcare. I have insurance." 
“And what about education? You know the so-and-so party are joining the protest and…”
“I am apolitical.” I stopped her, uncomfortably. What if someone heard us talk and accused us of being against the state? I do not follow politics, nor do I support any party. “Do you vote?”
" Yes, sometimes when the weather is good and…”
“Never mind. See you soon." She did not mean it as she strode off to be with her family. Rude. I was back in my car, coughing a little, wondering what hygiene she followed after joining the low lives at these protests and sanitising my clothes and hands. I turned on my favourite show on OTT and started eating my meal before I drove to the doctor. The show is about a white man's struggle against a fascist government. How nice of him to stand up for what he thought was right. Their country needs men like that. As I finish eating, I drive to the doctor’s office. Most of the expenses are covered by my insurance, and my doctor has a degree from abroad. I sit in the waiting area, and I overhear two women talking about the healthcare of their housekeeper. 
“I didn't know their medicines had subsidised rates. Lucky them. What do they complain about?”
“ Oh, did you know, Meena was saying their local medicine shop was shut down because it sold fake medicines.”
" Really?" The other one gasped, “Why do they not use the apps as we do?” I put my headphones on. There is no use listening to these things. The poor are being instigated to believe whatever narrative suits the anti-government agenda. I never faced an issue with fake medicines. That's a rumour spread through the free internet. My doctor is ready to see me now. He tells me to do some tests and take the usual medicines. 
The traffic jams have been too much lately. I honk at the car in front of me that refuses to move. He shouts something incoherent with his filthy mouth. I glance ahead and see that the road has caved in. The traffic was going in a single lane. Oh, the stupid rains are causing this again. I mumble. Every year, the rain causes such disruption. Someone said it's the fault of the municipality. How so? I wonder. It's not their fault that it's raining. I turn on the radio, and there is some news about paper leaks. I listen for 30 seconds before tuning into music. If people of the country are corrupt enough to buy the leaked papers, why blame the government? I wonder what is wrong with people. Why do they always blame the authorities for everything? I am the authority at my workplace. I would not like to be blamed for everything wrong with my company. The workers are equally liable for it. Isn't it so? Are people not educated enough to understand this? It takes me an hour more than usual to come back home. As I am about to enter the building, I realise the power grid in the area has failed, and the generators have been turned on. So much noise. I wait for the elevator as two uncles come to stand beside me for the same. They seem inebriated and speak about their wives making their lives miserable. I try to ignore, but my eyes fall on them as they approach the elevator, and their eyes hover on my exposed legs and neck. I don't know why I freeze, but I make an excuse about waiting for a friend and let the elevator go. The men talk of women at the workplace as the door shuts in my face. The brief moment of discomfort is gone once I realise they must be someone's guest and do not live in my building. I would not encounter the likes of them again. They were perhaps visiting a boss or seeking work. You know the types. I press the key and walk into my apartment. That is when my phone rings. It's an old friend who recently put her daughter in school. I picked it up, and she was crying. I could not understand her words. Finally, when she calmed down, she told me her brother-in-law had molested her daughter. “How could that be?” My jaw dropped. “ Isn't he from an Ivy League school and pursuing a career as a lawyer abroad?” She said she believed her daughter. “Of course,” I mumble. “Now?” I asked unsurely. She spoke of how she could stay at her parents' house till her brother-in-law left for the States again, because she didn't want anyone to know about it. But then her parents were equally troubled. “What happened to them?” I asked. “Oh, did you not know?” She seemed bothered. Their farmhouse was abandoned by the workers who had joined the farmer protest, so they had to move to their tiny 4bhk apartment in the city. “Oh, that's terrible. These people have no regard for others' troubles.” I lamented. “Imagine if my kaamwali didi stops coming. Who will do the dishes? Not me with my pedicured hands.”
"  Oh, you can order a maid from an app, right?"  She suggested. My attention was grabbed by a commotion outside the corridor of the entrance to my apartment. I ended the call and rushed out to the hallway to see if there was a safety issue. The name Bahadur came up once or twice between the women who had huddled at the end of the corridor, as I approached them. “What is the issue?” I enquired. One of them cleared her throat. “ Bahadur’s son. He has ended his life.”
"  Why?"  I frowned. He was supposed to appear for the examination, the one whose papers were leaked. She nodded. That's so absurd. " Why end your life over an exam?” I asked. “Apparently, Bahadur’s entire savings went for his tuition. His sister is on a hunger strike every day with the protestors. She even came on TV, my maid said." 
“What now?” Another lady shrugged. “We can't do without a watchman at night. Who knows when he might return?”
“I have told the secretary not to let him go until he appoints someone at his place.” Another one jibed in. Everyone agreed. Our security was important. I walked back to my apartment and searched the refrigerator for some vegetables that were about to go stale. Who knows how long the protests and boycotts will last? I decided to make a good meal and dialled my maid to come make it for me. As she cooked the meal and lamented about Bahadur’s son, I pretended to listen and sympathise while checking my work emails. The company did not stop over the weekend. It needed me. She served me the meal and left as I poured some wine to end the fruitful day. Tomorrow I will go to the spa and treat myself to a movie about a spy who saves my country from enemies across the border. These terrorists are everywhere.