The Billboard

In a bustling airport, Radha sat alone. A year back she had missed one of her flights. Ever since then she made it a point to reach the airport well before the flight time.

As she sat, waiting for the onboarding to begin, she enjoyed observing people and things around her. The friendly chatter of the college kids. The cranky babies and ever-exhausted moms. The suited-booted corporate executives, the artists… this time she even saw a Godman of sorts with his entourage.

Almost the same motley crowd, she sees every time. Her eyes scanned the ad banners. Happy people – selling life changing products. As her eyes rolled through several photoshopped models, her glance stopped at one ad banner in particular.

The lady in the ad looked very happy. Her eyes gleaming, her smile genuine. The reason behind this happiness – she got an LPG connection from the government. This lady who belonged to some rural part of India, was saying all she needed for a happy, uncomplicated life was a gas connection.

Radha wondered… does the woman in the pic even know how her pic is being seen (and may be ignored as well), by thousands every day? Has her life really been as easy and happy as this pic shows!?

For a moment Radha even thought, how in some western clothes, better grooming and perhaps a haircut this lady with LPG connection could pass off as a dusky model. Selling Jockey panties and emphasizing how right knickers can take you to places (no pun intended).

She heard the announcement. Time to board the plane. She left.

Same Time Somewhere in Rural India

I am told my photo is being hung on big billboards in the city. At the Bus Adda, Railway Station. In my house, I just have 3 photos of mine. One of them was taken when I married. You cannot see my face. Just the lower lip – curved up in an awkward smile. I was the new bride, in ghoonghat.

I was not supposed to show my face to strangers, including the photographer. Now so many men see my face at the Bus Adda. Chalo, no problem.

Our family got a gas connection. From spending days making cow dung cakes, to just striking a matchstick to make tea – my life has changed.

The cylinder is big. And I was scared if I do not use it well, it might blast.

Damyanti, my childhood friend, was married to a watchman in the city. She used to brag a lot, how now she will not have to sit on bullock carts, can shop in big-big shops, and most of all – how she no longer will have to start the day blowing the chullah.

I was envious. My kismat was not good enough to be married to a city guy.

The monsoon after Damyanti’s wedding, I went to my village. There I got to know, one day after a bad fight her husband burnt her using the gas cylinder.

I was grateful to God for having the chullah. My husband is also little hot headed. But thankfully burns from chullah coal are bearable.

This year sarpanch ji and bade saheb told we are eligible for gas connection. I did not want it. But my husband likes whatever government gives for free. At last, my family’s turn came. We got the connection. It was a celebration of sorts. I even made kheer that night. Though it got burnt a bit (actually it takes some time to understand how to cook on a gas stove). But my husband was very happy. A photographer came. I was shy to pose, but they insisted. I stood under our neem tree in a new saree and posed.

My husband got angry. “Remove the ghoonghat, you mad woman!”, he said. More than shy, I was shocked. A gas connection made my husband so forward!

I slowly moved the ghoongat and smiled.

The gas in the cylinder is still half full. Now we keep thinking what will happen once it gets over. So, I asked my husband to collect some wood. Baking cow dung cakes seems to be a chore for me.

They say once gas is over, they will refill it. In Ramanand’s house the refill is yet to happen. Seems there is a queue to get the refill. My only wish is if a day comes when my husband is drunk and mad at me, there should be no gas in the cylinder.