Benson Town — Her Name Was Mary
It was the first night in Bangalore I had not spent in an Airbnb, hostel, or a friend’s extra bed, as I had recently moved into an apartment in a lovely residential area in the north area of the city. As I was coming home the first night, I clumsily tried to figure out which key was which as I approached my gate. All of sudden, as I moved closer to the door, I tripped over something large and soft, and my heart panicked.
I looked down, and it was a woman.
The First Night.
I had no idea what to do. It’s not that I’m not familiar with the presence of homeless individuals — but never had I found someone sleeping on my doorstep. I had no idea who she was, or if we even spoke the same language. She was sleeping heavily, even through my looming presence and fumbling of keys. Guilt stung as I thought of this woman using a slab of concrete as a bed. Fear resided as I debated inviting her in.
I took the easy way out. I opened the door, and she remained asleep, in the midst of a groggy Bangalore.
The Second Night.
I was prepared. As I geared towards the gate of my home, I took hold of my feet view, and there she was, perfectly placed as the night before. This time she was awoken by my presence, but all she said was a casual hi. I asked in Hindi what her name was, and she responded in English, “My name is Mary. Don’t be afraid. Just don’t turn the light on me.” Completely unassuming, she grasped the concrete slab like a blanket, and bended her body to let me through.
Many Days Later.
I started seeing Mary around the neighborhood. I discovered she works at a food stall very near to my home. She always has a bright joyful smile, and finds a way to proclaim it whenever I walk her way. She asks very personal questions, about my faith, how much I practice my faith, how much I earn, my relationship with my family — all common inquiries in Bangalore. She is kind to me to the “guest is God” extent. Recently, when me and my roommate were adored in saris for an Eid celebration dinner, Mary saw us lurking for an auto, and bolted from the food stall. She grabbed us by our faces and stated, “You are looking so Indian and beautiful! God bless you…Please let me give you a Bindi!”
Just a little of an insight into Mary. Kind and unwieldy.
The next night, I found Mary again at my doorstep. It had been so long since our last encounter that at first her dark shadow sent shivers up my arm.
“Come in, come in…just shut the gate,” she said as she scooted over on the stoop, as if we were sharing a park bench.
“Mary, are you okay?” I asked.
“Yes, yes madam.”
“Do you need anything?”
“The time.”
“8pm”
“I’ll only be here until 8.45. That’s when the bus comes.”
“How long do you have on the bus?”
“1 hour.”
“Madam…go in, go in…it’s about rain.”
She was right. Against the black night, the grey clouds, heavy with monsoon, were about to release their wrath onto the city. While we sat — speaking no words — we were engulfed in the sounds of the building wind, and a young boy pumping water from the well. As I stood to open the door, before I could try to convince her to come in, she grabbed the handle and shut her self out.
In this quaint residential neighborhood, when the sun sets, the buses come even less frequently. The roads that were once filled with swerving autos, pani puri, and children running after their cricket balls, are left barren — transforming into a dimly lit landscape, littered with trash, sleeping cows, and the shadows of men.
And then there’s Mary. Between the time when her loyal food patrons stop lining up for their rice dishes, and when her carriage arrives at the BTMC bus stop, she must decide how and where to safely spend her time. For now, it’s the step of a foreigner’s house, gated from the hostility and fear of the streets at night.
