Travels and Tales!

⚠️Trigger Warning ⚠️ : This story contains descriptions of death and decomposing bodies, references to sexual violence and abuse, drug use, class exploitation, and morally complex criminal activity. It includes strong language and scenes set in environments involving poverty.

“Lachi… Lachiii!”

Those screams were enough to make my two-year-old upright and start wailing. I had just managed to get him to sleep. What in the hell was the urgency now? I cursed under my breath, using every foul word I knew, and screamed back:

“Aaaa… Ab kaun margaya?” (Now, who died?)

See, unlike you “educated ones,” I don’t have to mind my tongue when I curse. The slum I live in, the skin I’m in – it makes life simpler that way. I walked out of my hut, twisting my hair into a messy bun and adjusting my pallu over my shoulder.

“Arey, for real, someone died,” he panted, his eyes wide. “You hit the lottery again, Lachi. This is the third one in three months.”

“Arey wah! Now that is amazing news. Tere mu mein ghee shakkar,” I said, a genuine grin splitting my face. I hugged him tightly as I said it.

He is everything and nothing to me. We grew up together in the filth of these slums. He’s the one who watched me go around with this guy, that guy, and every other guy in between. He was the one who carried me to the hospital when I was bleeding out on the street. He is practically a father to my son, yet he never asks me to be anything more than I am. Honestly, we don’t even talk about it.

I clean houses, and he picks up waste. I am a scavenger in the bright daylight; he is a scavenger in the night. Together, we handle the things the rest of the world is too polite to touch.

Did that give you a proper introduction to our lives?

I know you haven’t heard an introduction quite like this before. But then again, you see us every day, don’t you? You press your makhmal handkerchiefs on your noses when we pass. You scream at your children when they dare to smile back at ours. And yet, your voice turns loud and with the pretended kindness when you call us over to “donate” your moth-eaten clothes, right when your neighbors are watching.

It might be deeply uncomfortable for you to read this, but today, it is my turn to tell the story. This isn’t a story of the gutter; it is a story buried in the heights of your skyscrapers. I’m going to tell you the smelly facts of your “completely owned” gated societies – the places that are hardly filled with life but overflowing with secrets. I’ll tell you about the darkest truths buried under piles of cash and covered up by deep-cleaning agencies.

I’m going to tell you about our “Jackpots.”

I can’t give you statistics. I don’t know how many skyscrapers there are or the net worth of the “rich” people living inside them. But I know this: when I step out of my smelly slum, I see those shining towers long before I see the sky. We live in their shadows. We clean their floors, haul away their filth, and walk around in their discarded clothes like we’re part of a fashion show.

There are many stories about how “it” started. Everyone has their own version.

Now, imagine the flashy circles in your head, like how they are shown while flashback is about to start in old movies:

Imagine it… it was 1989, a dark, cyclonic night. The world looked like it was doomed. Darkness everywhere… bla bla blaaa… I’m kidding! He he. It was nothing like that.

Slum-dwellers have been working in gated communities for decades. Usually, it’s a routine. We have fixed slots, 5 to 6 houses each. We start at 5:00 AM, eat their leftovers for lunch, and if we’re lucky, pack some scraps for dinner. Those with kids, like me, take them along as “sympathy factors” – it helps with the tips. That’s the norm. At least, it was. Until one day.

Aasa. One of the old ladies. She was the first to hit the “Jackpot.” She worked for a former actress, someone who played vamps and did “special songs” back in the day. This actress was smart; she married, had a kid, and invested her money well.

Do you remember the 2005 Mumbai floods? That’s when it happened. Our lives in the slums were shattered. No one could go to work for weeks. After the chaos settled, people slowly trickled back to their jobs. Aasa Thai went back too, but she returned with a huge grin and a pile of cash. 25,000 rupees. Back then, that was a fortune. Her shack got a makeover, she bought a black-and-white TV, and she became the celebrity of our slum.

I’m piquing your interest, aren’t I? I know. I like making people wait, even if it irritates them.

“Lachiiii!” he screamed again.

It was already late, it seemed. They were in a hurry. You need to go, Nowww!

So, I had to go.

I splashed some water on my face and threw on that dark brown cotton saree Padma Didi gave me for last year’s Diwali. It was the first time I wore it, and ever since, it became my lucky charm. And honestly, it’s just easier, the marks hide in that color and being cotton, it’s easier to scrub them off later.

I was quick. Five minutes to wash up and drape the saree. I grabbed my kid and dropped him at Aasa Thai’s place. “Thaiiii, sambhaal lena!” I screamed while brisk-walking toward the slum entrance.

There it was. A longgg black car, the kind with that round bangle on it with three cycle spokes inside. A man in his 50s held the door open and snapped, “Chalo chalo, jaldiii!”

I sat inside, clutching my pallu with both hands against my chest. I could see the driver peeping through the mirror at my blouse, it was a bit messed up. But who cares? That’s all he’s ever going to get to do, so I just ignored him.

It was a drive of just a few minutes. These cars always have dark mirrors; it makes it easy for the rich people so no one sees whats inside. We get dropped at the turning in the basement, and from there we take the stairs, hit the exit, and enter the building again. I learned all these tricks from Aasa Thai, even before I hit my first jackpot.

While ignoring the driver and replaying Aasa Thai’s lessons in my head, we arrived at the shiny tall building. Before the car even stopped, the old man muttered, “Theyees” (23).

What a coincidence. The third jackpot of the year, and the number matches the twenty-three years I’ve spent living next to these tall buildings. I hopped out of the car quickly, holding my pallu over my face like a mask, and started walking toward the entrance. I came up from the basement stairs, reached the main entrance, and walked straight to the guard.

“Theyees,” I said.

He looked me up and down, then shoved a book at me, asking me to sign (I know how to write my name). As I signed, I heard him mumble under his breath, “Ye kitne din ke liye rahegi ki…” (Let’s see how long this one lasts).

While walking toward the lift, I kept thinking to myself: Why did he say that? Who could it be? Whoever it is, I know I can’t share the story with a soul. That’s one of the lessons Aasa Thai drilled into me. Even when we see their names flashed on the TV later, we stay silent. No one, not even our closest friends from the slums, should ever know the details of a “Jackpot.” It has been that way for decades, an unspoken understanding between all of us.

That’s why no one asks questions when we disappear for a few days. They just wait. Then, slowly, they start dropping by the house to see what new things we’ve bought.

My train of thought snapped at the sound of the lift. Ding.

I stepped out and saw a bright, big LED light: “23.” It was a massive wooden structure in the shape of the number 23, filled with a collection of alcohol bottles. Small, big, colorful… all organized perfectly, side by side.

But that wasn’t what caught my eye. It was the poster behind it. A black-and-white picture of a man in a three-piece suit, sitting on a couch with a cigar in his hand. He was staring down at the floor. And there, at his feet, head down but facing him, was a naked woman, scrubbing the floor with a cloth and a bucket beside her.

Not just that, it was the bruises on her back. Red and maroon lines, and a thick black mark on her neck were clearly visible because her hair was tied up in a bun. Her backbone was sharp, sticking out from just below that mark all the way down. That “painting,” even without me realizing it, made my stomach turn.

In that one moment, I knew the gender of my “Jackpot.” The watchman’s words rang in my ears again, making perfect, sickening sense. And I took the keys that I already had from my blouse and opened the main door with a smile on my face.

The smell!

The pungent, suffocating smell. It was the kind of smell that was foul even for someone like me, who has lived in filth all my life. It was the smell of rot, the kind of stench that would make any of you puke the second it reached your nose.

But as my brain processed it, I realized what it was: the smell of a sinner’s life. And somehow, that rotting smell was relieving. It washed away the discomfort that the lobby’s “art” had left in my gut.

That smell welcomed me in.

And that welcome got me back to my job. I took a deep breath, tied my pallu tight over my nose, and started looking around.

It was a huge mansion. Most of the apartments in these buildings aren’t just apartments; they are worlds unto themselves. This one was too. I already had my instructions: where to go and what I was supposed to find. I started walking through a huge hallway filled with black-and-white paintings. I didn’t pay attention to any of them. I just kept walking, looking for my silver shiny door.

I found it and opened it.

Inside was a huge wooden wall. It was so big it would hurt my neck just to look at it for more than a minute. In the middle of it was a number lock. The code was easy to remember: “2323.” I punched the numbers into the keypad, trying to numb my nose. My pallu wasn’t enough to hold back the smell anymore; it was getting stronger with every second.

After a few seconds of creaking, the huge wall split in two and started sliding away. As it opened, a shiny reflection jammed my eyes. I blinked, squeezing my eyes shut for a split second, then opened them again, peering through my eyebrows. My brain was trying to process what I was looking at.

A black body, floating in the middle of a swimming pool. It looked like a half-full balloon. All the bright lights around the room were reflecting off the water, except for that one spot where the ballooned body was floating. I took another deep breath and started walking toward the pool.

That visual will always stay in my head.

Not the smell. Not the naked, half-full balloon of a body. Not the splits in the flesh that were hanging open and dark gray. Not the skin that looked like it would peel off if a breeze hit it. Not the popped-out eyes. Not even the color of the pool water, which I only just noticed.

It was the erect penis.

It stood up above the rest of the body, marked with dried-up maroon stains all around it.

My heart skipped, I don’t know how many beats. I don’t know how many seconds I stood there frozen. I don’t even know if I was breathing. It was a feeling I’d never had before, and it’s something I never want to feel ever again.

And then the phone rang.

The ring brought me back to the world, vibrating inside my jacket. It rang again, dragging me back to reality. I answered.

“Kitna time lagega?” (How much time?) he asked.

“This isn’t an easy one, sir. This is a huge mess (bada locha). It’s going to cost more, and I’ll need three or four hours,” I said. My reality was finally back.

“You’ll get way more than you’re thinking,” he answered, sounding both worried and demanding. “Don’t think about that now. Just finish the work before the sun goes down. Otherwise, forget the money, you’re the one who’s going to get caught!”

“Hojayega saab! Mein call karti!” (It’ll be done, sir. I’ll call you.)

I disconnected the call, and my smile returned.

This is the beauty of poverty. When you have nothing left to lose and nothing to be scared of, you become the strongest person in the world. That has been my whole life.

I set the phone on the table next to the bathing bench and started unwrapping my saree. I couldn’t help but notice a tray on that same table – syringes, white powder, bottles of this and that. I didn’t have time to think about them, so I just ignored them and kept going. I stripped down, preparing my body to enter a pool of water dirtier than the drainage from our slum.

I got into the water. Slowly, I started walking towards the body. Now that I didn’t have my pallu to cover my nose, the smell hit me thoroughly. After dealing with bodies for a while now, I could tell he’d been in that water for at least three days.

I got closer. I was right; the skin looked like it would peel off any second because of those open cuts. I looked around and found one of those round floats rich people use. I grabbed it and walked back to the body. The man was already stiff, so I just needed a grip and some strength. I slid one of his bloated legs into the float, clutched it with both hands, and started pulling.

Wondering how a “poor woman” from a malnourished slum can do this? I am a woman who is 6 feet 2 inches tall! Remember that guy, this guy, and every other guy I mentioned? I gave them what they wanted for what I wanted: Food. Money for food. Never alcohol, never drugs. Always food. My body is strong enough to deliver a baby on Sunday and go to work on Monday.

Pulling a man who only came up to my shoulders, even a bloated one, wasn’t that difficult. The water was a bonus, helping him glide. I pulled the body to the edge and pushed it into the corner. Now, I had to figure out how to get him out. My brain works best under stress. I used one of his arms as a holder, hooking it behind the pool rail to keep him from floating away, and started thinking.

I stepped out of the pool and saw the switches. Working in these big buildings came in handy here. I went to the board and turned the water pump to full flow, waiting patiently for five minutes. Then, I remembered the most important thing I had to do.

I called him. My partner, the waste collector.

“Ha, bol!” (Yeah, speak!)

“Abey, this is a real lottery, man! But the situation is a bit strange. Do one thing, get your ambulance and get here. Time is short!”

“Okay. How many people?” he asked.

“Our usual three. With you, that’s four.”

“Alright. One hour?”

“As fast as you can! And listen – ‘gand h’ (it’s a mess). Bring everything. You come up first with the gear.”

“Okay,” he said and hung up.

I checked the time. 14:23.

Then I called the guy who gave me the job.

“Ha, bol!”

“Saab, this won’t be easy. Certainly not the way you guys planned it,” I said, sounding confident.

“So what do we do?”

“An ambulance is the best way, saab. Once this body is out of here, you decide if he’s ‘serious’ or ‘dead on arrival’ at the hospital.”

“Fine. You know the name of the hospital, right?”

“Yes, saab. The ambulance belongs to that same place.”

“Okay. How much longer?”

“I’ll call you, saab.” I disconnected.

That’s when I realized I was still naked. But I didn’t want my lucky saree to get stained. While thinking about the saree, I noticed the pool was full. I ran to the pump, turned it off, and walked back to the edge.

I got back into the filth one last time. I unhooked the hand from the rail and gave the floating body a hard push. It just slid out of the pool onto the floor. That erected penis isn’t scary anymore. I just held my breath, gave it one last shove, and that was it. The body was out.

One job done.

I went back to the pump and switched it on again, but this time to drain it. I had to get rid of the evidence of the rot. I knew I had some time before the boys arrived, so I stepped into the shower right there next to the pool. I washed it all off. I took the towel hanging right next to me and started wiping my body dry.

Are you wondering why I’m not scared of fingerprints? Why am I not worried about leaving evidence? It’s because I’m not new to this game. And remember – I have nothing to lose. I’m not even afraid of what will happen to my son if I get caught. I survived this world; he will too!

The pool wasn’t empty yet. I realized the whole area was too bright, too flashy. I went to turn off some of the lights. I was hunting for the right switch, and without even realizing it, I hit a switch for them all.

It should have been pitch dark. I should have turned the lights back on, right?

No. Absolutely not. That’s when I really earned my jackpot!

The whole floor glowed in neon radium. And there on the walls, numbers appeared: 1, 2, 3… all the way to 23.

I almost dropped my towel but held on tight. I looked around. The walls were covered in filth. Not slum filth, abuse. Violence. My brain screamed at me: these aren’t paintings, these are pictures. Neon silhouettes of what happened here.

I walked to number 23 and touched it. A touchscreen number lock popped up. I don’t know why, but I pressed “2323.” The door slid open. My jaw dropped.

I ran to number 22 and entered “2222” without even thinking. The door slid again. My jaw snapped shut.

I didn’t need to check the rest. I knew. I went back to the switches and turned the lights on. Looking around, the room felt smaller than it looked from the outside – the hidden rooms behind those numbers took up all the space. It all made sense now. I looked up. No cameras. How can they, I smirked.

I rushed back to my saree, quickly draped it, and checked the time. 15:15.

I started cleaning up the area, soaking in that smell again. It didn’t bother me anymore. I was too busy thinking.

I was quick to clean up the mess. I gathered all the trash into one pile, right next to the body.

Then the doorbell rang.

I knew it was him. I ran to the door, and there he was, in his regular uniform, carrying a heavy trash bag. “The whole building is empty, don’t worry,” he said as I pulled him in and shut the door fast. “It was just the watchman…” Then he stopped and looked at me.

There I was, smiling, my eyes brighter than they’d ever been. I hugged him so tightly. “Let’s get married,” I said.

He was clueless. I guess he thought I was in shock. But that’s the best part about him, he never digs for details at the wrong time. He just said, “Tk h, tk h (Okay, okay). Now, can we clean this up?”

I just nodded.

“Where?” he asked.

“Come with me.”

We crossed the shiny silver door; I opened the number lock again for the giant wooden door.

 “Are wah! What is this?” he laughed, his loud evil laugh. That moment felt like the epitome of our existence together. I started laughing too.

He opened his bag and took out the liquid. We put on our special gloves and applied it thoroughly to the naked body. Then he pulled out the massive cover they use for sealing medical waste. I held the bag open, removed the float from the leg, and slid the body halfway. He went to the head, switched to spongy gloves, slid them under the shoulders, and with one push, the body was in!

He is a man of strength, after all. 6 foot 4.

He sealed the bag completely. “Now the smell can’t get out,” he said.

He grabbed another trash bag, and we stuffed all the bottles and trash into it. This one was just a regular bag. He looked at me and asked, “Now what?”

The time was 16:00.

I called the guy, the man who was the “boss” until now. “16:30,” I said the moment he picked up. He didn’t say a word, just “OK.”

“Arrogance?” he smiled at me as I hung up. “It suits you, though!”

“Oh, really?” I said, jumping onto him.

“The smell is still here. We still have to take care of that,” he whispered, his hands gripping me hard.

“Then let’s make it quick,” I said. My hands were already working on his pants button.

“You!” was all he could choke out.

“The smell is still here,” he whispered again, but this time his eyes weren’t on the body. They were on me. The pool water was draining slowly behind us, the sound echoing through the room like a ticking clock.

“We’ll clean it,” I said. “We always do.”

He held my waist tighter – not for lust or romance, but recognition. The kind that only comes from standing in rot for years and rising above it anyway.

“And we’re done being waste collectors,” I said. That got his attention. He pulled back, seeing the look in my eyes – the one that told him I wasn’t joking.

His jaw tightened. The pool was empty now. The neon glow was gone, replaced by glossy tiles and a sealed body on the floor. He let out a slow whistle. “Lottery, huh?”

“No,” I said. “This is a jackpot.”

I walked to the wooden wall, running my fingers over the hidden locks. I could see the shift in him. He realized the girl who grew up cursing in the mud had just outgrown it.

“Sixteen-thirty,” he reminded me.

“I know.”

We moved with clinical efficiency. No noise. No panic. The regular trash went first. The sealed bag stayed near the entrance. Everything wiped. Everything aligned. When the doorbell rang, we were ready.

“You serious about the marriage thing?” he whispered.

I smiled. “Now you’re asking questions?”

The phone vibrated. I gave the orders: “Act urgent. Act scared.” Then I called the ambulance. “Two minutes. Come straight up.”

He took the regular trash out the service exit. Calm. Casual. No one notices waste leaving a building; they only notice when it piles up. The sealed body stayed hidden. I adjusted my saree, smudged some water on my face, and changed my breathing. Just enough.

The paramedics rushed in. “Inside!” I directed. They moved through the hidden door. Within seconds, the sealed bag was gone, and they returned with a stretcher. On it was a man – bare chest, wet skin, unconscious but breathing. Perfect.

We rolled him to the lift as the sirens started downstairs. In the lobby, we ran into the Boss. He was pretending to be confused. “What happened?”

“I don’t know, saab!” I said, my eyes wide. “I was cleaning, heard a sound, and found him in the pool!”

The Boss looked at the stretcher. The man groaned. “Pulse weak. We need to move,” the paramedic snapped.

“Is he…?” the Boss started.

“Still alive. Move!”

I saw the Boss’s jaw tighten. Just for a second. Fear.

We pushed into the ambulance. The Boss tried to follow, The paramadics screams ‘Only one’. Through the back glass, I saw him standing there, calculating, unsure, no longer in control. I am sure he was caluculating how much is this going to cost.

Inside, the “unconscious” man opened one eye and looked at me. I didn’t smile. Not yet. I just leaned back and listened to the siren.

Because today wasn’t just a jackpot. It was the beginning.

Epilogue:

The sea in Goa does not smell like rot. It smells like salt, sunscreen, and ambition.

We wake up before the sun. Cameras are set up on the sand, the tripod tilted against the wind. He does push-ups; I count loudly and correct his form just to annoy him. He laughs. The video goes up, and the comments flood in: “Couple goals.” “Power duo.” “Unreal chemistry.”

They see muscles. Discipline. Clean eating. They don’t see drainage water. They don’t see hidden rooms behind wooden walls. We built this slowly – reels, bootcamps, transformations. He talks about survival like it’s cardio. I talk about strength like it’s inheritance. Symmetry sells well online.

We live in a white villa now. Minimal. Bright. No shadows tall enough to hide secrets.

When the invitation from Dubai arrives, he reads it twice. “International Fitness Excellence Awards,” he says. “The big one.” I take the phone and read the sponsor’s name. I smile. “Let’s go.”

Dubai is glass, gold, and polished marble. A place where everything shines and nothing smells. Backstage is a blur of perfume and curated confidence. Then, my name is called: Fitness Icon of the Year.

The applause is deafening. I walk onto the stage in a fitted white gown. Shoulders straight. My man is in the front row, solid and proud. Mine.

And then I see him. The man holding the trophy.

He’s older now, softer, but the eyes are the same, eyes used to commanding silence. For a second, he doesn’t recognize me. Why would he? I don’t wear a cotton saree anymore. He extends the award toward me. I take it and look him straight in the eyes. No rush. No blinking.

“Saab,” I say softly.

His fingers tighten around the base of the trophy before he lets go. Recognition flickers, reality hits.

Then I smirk. Just a little.

I turn toward the cameras. Flash. Flash. Flash. I pose with my chin lifted and the trophy held high. He stands beside me, clapping for the cameras, but I see the shift in his jaw. No one else hears the history between us. I don’t care even if they do.

After all, I have everything that I didn’t even dare to dream of.

Well, I think they are right,

‘Even the universe falls in love with a stubborn soul.’

© 2026 | Sreeja Gadhiraju. All rights reserved.

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