Wrinkled Lives: The Hope And Fury Deep Inside The Poor, Obedient Indian Girl

By M H AHSSAN | INNLIVE

Saturday night, suburban Gurgaon. The sky turns from blue to black, the burnt-toast smell of fireworks blows across the ravine, and tall, broad-shouldered Varsha hauls a hot-coal iron over the shimmering finery of others.

Quietly, quickly, she presses the wrinkles out of a brushed pink chiffon salwar-kameez, another the colour of nimboo-pani, followed by three button-down white dress shirts. Her cellphone trills. “Yes, didi. It’s almost ready. Send your driver in ten minutes.”