2.2 The Early Shift

It could be no other than her mother who called Moha, her separated husband, who scurried to Fehurihi on his scooter, in his pyjamas without brushing his teeth. The door was unlocked. He entered without even a knock. He saw her thrown on the bed on her back and knocked out. The smell of alcohol hung in the air. She had vomited onto the bedspread and soiled her hotpants. Moha picked up her mobile phone, scanned the screen and dropped it on the table.

“Zanat! Wake up!” he shook her. “It’s nine-thirty in the morning! Aren’t you going to work? Zane! Get up! I know all your dirty habits!”

Zanat opened her heavy eyes. She knew exactly what state she was in but she hadn’t expected to find him standing in her bedroom. “What are you doing here?”

“What am I doing here?” he retorted, “What were you doing…where were you last night? You’re drunk! You smell like a cooked pig!”

“Mind your own business!” she snapped back.

“The only time my business is when you need money,” Moha responded angrily, “You went out jogging in those shorts! Now you’re late for work and your salary will be cut by half. Don’t call me for money! I am not your ATM.”

“You haven’t given me anything for the last two months,” she muttered, grabbing a towel and heading towards the bathroom.

“I did,” he stepped closer, his voice rising, “I paid for Zal’s medicals and Rakan’s library fee. I…”

The door slammed shut in his face with a loud bang. “BITCH!” Moha yelled at the wood.

He glanced around the empty room and walked over to the dressing table to scrutinise the surface. Moha noticed the cash lying in the open. He picked up the cash and counted. Pulling his wallet from his back pocket, he slid her money inside, then took out four different five-hundred rufiya banknotes from another slot to replace her money on the table. He peered into the wardrobe—a huge wooden panel built of solid timber. He caught the alluring scent of her perfume mixed with cluttered bale of abandoned clothes at the bottom. Plenty of her current outfits hung neatly from the closet rod. Giving one final squint at the locked bathroom door, Moha left the room indifferently.

 

Zanat arrived at Mauris Bank at ten-forty.

“Oh dear! You are late!” cried Idania the moment she walked in. “You look like a total mess! Have you even had breakfast?”

“Do you think the HRM will know?”

“She came downstairs. Did you punch the card?”

“I have,” replied Zanat.

“Too bad!”

“It’s okay.”

If Zanat had not punched her card, Idania would have stealthily collected the card later in the day. Using an old electric typewriter kept within reach in the Cash Department, she could print the exact date and time with perfectly identical lettering to cover for her.

Idania looked her up and down, “You’re showing so much white.”

Zanat nodded, “It’s time I take a treatment.”

“I can join you for a wash.”

“Let’s do it!”

“Are you going in there looking like that?” Idania blinked, gesturing towards the office door.

Zanat gave her a weary nod.

“Iron out!”

She hitched her skirt up slightly around her midriff, shortening the hemline significantly. She secured her blazer buttons to hide the waistline. “Am I alright?”

“You look great,” Idania acclaimed.

She opened the door to the chilled Internal Audit Department and entered silently. Her boss sat behind his desk on the far side of the room, facing the door. It really helped that her appearance was ironed out. Chief Auditor Murti came from India. Murti watched his employee cross the floor on tiptoe towards her cubicle. She cut an elegant figure in her sharp red blazer, with pointed tits, and short red pencil skirt that revealed her legs well up the thigh. It took precisely two minutes for the desk phone to buzz. Murti demanded to see her.

Ironed out to make sure her legs showed amply, Zanat stepped out of the cubicle and walked towards his desk with deliberate, criss-cross steps.

“I want to do the ledger,” he spoke softly.

“Alright,” she replied.

She rolled an armless chair and sat down on his right, taking up her usual position for tallying ledgers. He passed her a thick, long book. “Page 33, August, got it!”

“Yes.”

“I thought you weren’t feeling well today!”

“I’m okay,” she murmured. Four hours ago, she had been vomiting on the street but purging her stomach had finally relieved the deep drowsiness left by the liquor she shared with Bacca.

“We will try to complete a whole year and three books,” Murti noted.

The work went on for an hour and a half before they paused for lunch. By then, the tight belt of her skirt was digging hard under her ribs, upsetting her stomach. Shortly after lunch, Zanat discreetly unfastened the belt, released the zipper on her left hip and loosed the fabric so she could sit comfortably at work.

Murti returned thirty minutes later. Sitting down in his executive chair, he leaned back and caught a breach of exposed skin beneath her unbuttoned blazer.

She offered a small, apologetic grin. “Mr Murti, I have an upset tummy. I released the zipper.”

“Why?”

“Just to give it some breathing space,” she said.

“Do you want to take a break?”

“No. It’s alright.”

“Take a walk, get a stretch,” he suggested.

“I can’t get up,” the clerk returned quietly.

“What’s the matter?”

“I’m a little undone,” she giggled, “but I can do a stretch here.”

Zanat gave it a little try, stretching her arms and extending her legs fully under the table.

“You know what my wife would say?” he uttered, keeping his tone measured. “You make me nervous when you sit that way.”

“I’m sorry, Mr Murti.”

“I don’t mean it that way. I remember when you joined the bank five years ago, you came to work wearing a headscarf. I know yours is a religious family. I still think of you as a purdah girl with a pious soul.”

“A purdah girl?” she cried, straightening up in her chair.

“A woman who screens herself from men.”

“No,” Zanat objected, “I’m a grown-up woman.”

“We have the same traditional customs in India.”

“I hate screening,” her voice released softly.

“Don’t say hate, just say you don’t like it,” Murti articulated gently. “You have changed a lot, Zanat.”

“I know,” she echoed, her tone carrying a subtle, enticing warmth.

“I think about you…especially since you started wearing the short uniform without a headscarf. I’m still hoping you’ll revert to it someday.”

“No, it’s not going to happen, Mr Murti.”

“Well, let’s get back to work!”

“Of course.”

Seated behind his desk, Murti trained a long lens on the financial appeals through his glasses, frequently gazing down at the bank girls’ legs. The girls knew he did it and he knew that they knew. Despite this, Murti was a deeply shy person who would not even venture into the communal tearoom. His wife often complained about the bank’s sexy red outfits—the short skirts, tailored blazers, close-fitting bodysuits and black shoes. She had certainly lectured him many times on how to restrain his eyes and his thoughts. Yet, he remained a polite, soft-spoken man whose biggest dream was simply secure a better-paying job in the States or Dubai. Murti treated every girl in the office like a minor, regardless of her actual age, and loved to talk about his homeland.

It took another three hours of intensive tallying to fold the ledger for the day. When they finished, Zanat rolled the chair away and returned to her cubicle. She gave Idania a buzz to tell her she was finally free.

“I will make a reservation with Cutesy and be at your place by seven,” a confident Idania assured her.

Zanat walked home through a light drizzle. She carried her mobile phone in her hand, her portable black shoulder bag dangling from a long sling. In her red outfit and thin black jelly flats, her skirt corrected to mid-thigh. Zanat never learnt to ride a motorbike.