Chanda sent home money every two weeks. In a small village in India, she deposited money into the bank account of her Aunt and Uncle who sent her to live in America. The place seemed so remote, almost cut off from  the rest of the country. There, a festival took place where participants hurled cow eliminations at each other. The muddy, mucky sense of it had been known for centuries. Locals tied it to an ancient god who they believed restored people’s health with the cow plops. During the festival, thick patties hurled through the air and smushed into the bodies and faces of those rollicking around in the filth. 

She still used snail mail to send the checks to her family. A sense of dread mixed with wonder every time she sent off the dollars. She had done well for herself. Go had ensured that he didn’t give her any assistance financially. The Aerials and Varials Skate Shop that Chanda had built cleared a billion dollars in sales, mostly from online orders. The shop in a region of Smartystan that had been so close to the edge of the city  was almost Old Wilmington, Delaware. She hadn’t taken in a coin from her lover.  Pride welled up inside her as she looked over her balance sheet on her brain chip. 

With a three percent tax rate for all Smartys, a contract and consumption tax, the figures looked larger as net income. Expenses like store upkeep, merchandising, and miscellaneous items appeared negligible. Her profit margins screamed her illustrious work ethic. While Go worked the markets, she kept shop and didn’t even consider the fact that she had blood mixed with grease on her hands. By cleaning off the mess, she washed away misgivings about whether the money she sent had been put to good use.

She shrugged and returned to her work. Though, it didn’t feel like work. Yes, her joints ached with joy, and her hands felt numb as she wrapped bandages around the wounds. As she sought some understanding of the reason why she almost delivered cash to her family, she reminded herself that it was a duty. It remained a calling as she reached for a box of heavy duty gloves she often neglected. Sensations of pain became a rush for her and that’s why she didn’t mind the wounds of her labor. By taking into account the reality of being a stalwart, busting her tail just to see the magnificence of putting a deck together, the twinge of success and the burden of achievement felt like glory. 

Few people visited the physical location. When she did have customers, they knew almost as much as she about the color schemes and varieties of wheel configurations. The joy she felt existed because she knew that could be found on earth, in this life. The way she busied about the place, dusting and picking up t-shirts and trousers she had knocked over in haste, gave her an unrelenting pleasure. Pride mixed with the sense of duty and she couldn’t figure out which one reigned victorious over the other. 

It seemed as if she could just keep on working to quell the raging forces of misgivings of giving her family money. What they used it for she had no idea.

But she did it anyway. Go never interfered with her capacity to be generous. It was her money. Chanda never discussed what she did with it and didn’t care to ask. On her brain chip, she tracked the shipping orders and continued to rake in money knowing that a percentage of it would go to India. She knew that to take care of herself felt righteous, even with the thought that she had been selfish in creating wealth. A balance came when she knew that she could be a bit selfless by giving a significant portion of her earnings to pesthole that other Indians at large didn’t pay attention to at all.

 Pain came in waves. To assuage such a feeling, she just worked smarter. Like a machine from the nineteenth century issuing out copies of pamphlets on reason, she felt compelled to work right down to the gristle. Her straight black hair became matted with sweat. No other workers existed in the shop. No need for any allowed her the possibility of solitude. Her brown skin glistened under the scant lights of the shop. The physical nature of meeting the grindstone rested in her bones. Thoughts raced through her brain and she kept going. That thought bubbled up in her mind from time to time as she gasped for air. 

In her industry, she discovered excellence. As she tied her hair into a pony tail, she put it in her mind to go beyond the limits of what hurt. The work remained the only thing that mattered. Except, she experienced a quiet, gnawing guilt that her family might be in squalor and she lived it up in the only place on Earth that stood for property rights. The free market economy permitted her the chance to sustain a fortune for herself. But what about her family? What if they didn’t even use the money and the letters home piled up like paper mountains? With a whisk of her hand across her brow, she just kept working.

She held a degree in nursing, but when she met Go, she knew that her focus would have to align with his dream of a skate shop. In her mind, she could feel the coldness of the day she left for the United States. Her family gave her a lovely send-off but she could sense the sting of probably never seeing them again. This, she thought, felt like the gash in her hand covered by adhesives. A welcome pain, she called it, she visited the feeling over and over again. Her brain kept hammering away at the thought as she hammered away at the wheels under the deck.

She left nothing to luck or any kind of mystical leanings. Everything she engaged in had a meaning, a purpose. From the floors she swept, there arose a sense of dread combined with a painter’s specificity. To downgrade or regress from her work would be the death knell, tolling out the end of a powerful mind. She could’ve just stayed in the belly of the shop which housed a ramp and mini park. She, however, didn’t stop to even consider taking breaks. No one would know except Go whether she worked or not. The camera system was set up to protect the merchandise, but they never reported any incidents of theft or vandalism. 

So, she worked to clear her mind.  What became of this shop rested in her hands. When she came home worn and tired, she could sense that what she did benefitted her values, though they gave no correspondence whatsoever. It still felt right that she did her diligence to the people who cared for her. As an immigrant, the suggestion that she be a provider for her people gave her a sword and shield to tamp down on the reservations she had to protect her values…even if they never showed any gratitude for the millions of dollars she offered them.

But that was the gist of her struggle. As she mopped the floors three times a day, the brain chip played popular music that only she could hear. Then, she heard the land line ring. Quaint and outdated, Go had placed it in the shop for the thrills, as a joke. It rang though.

“Aerials and Varials Skate Shop, Chanda Ansari speaking. How may I direct your call?” She had practiced saying the lines like a skater worked on landing a kick flip, just in case. The phone went dead again. Chanda shook her head. Like flicking off sweat from her brow, she paid no attention to the mysterious call. She returned to her work. By giving it no attention, she powered through the rest of her day with an energy drink. Some people walked through and Chanda just smiled and waved. The group headed to the skate park downstairs. 

This woman' s work continued with minimal interruption. Some teens wearing the clothes provided by the shop online rolled past with helmets and other protective gear, though one looked like a rebel who didn’t wear a helmet. She stopped him and pointed at the sign: “Helmets must be worn at all times in the skate park.” He abided. He bought some brand new hardware with his brainchip and proceeded downstairs. Chanda smirked. With the knowledge of skating, she also felt relief. It took away from the pain of ignorance regarding her family. She knew about traumatic brain injury and that once you passed through those shop doors, the insurance policy covered any and all injuries incurred while using the park. The contract displayed on their chips gave them the impetus to do as many tricks as possible, under the banner of safety.

The sound, though muffled, of wheels rolling over the surface gave Chanda a sense of accomplishment. There appeared to be a lifting of the clouds in her thoughts, though brief. The phone rang again. She unplugged it from the wall. As she returned to the floor from behind the counter, she still felt stabs of what had become of her. Go had always told her to be selfish and she was. A little. Then she wondered how she could be “a little” selfish. That was like being a little alive. What gave her life remained the idea she had been a worker all her life. As a business owner, she still worked and it nearly drove her insane with the notion that she felt it right to express deference to those whom she called relatives a world away.

In the way that she picked up on the specific nature of her pleasant displeasure, the shop called for her. The rumbling downstairs became a slightly muted din that drove her mind. She knew she had to bring forth a better way of communicating her thoughts. With the money she sent next time, she thought about attaching a letter to goad them into answering her. At this point in her life, she wanted to be rationally self-interested, but the feeling became too strong. It became unbearable. She continued to keep quiet, at bay she could no longer keep inside. The thought of being unselfish didn’t suit her ideals. 

In the way that she could keep from collapsing into a puddle of tears, she grabbed some stationary and a pen. Clear-eyed, she penned a four page letter that shook her core. She sealed it and didn’t enclose any money this time. She walked out of the shop and found a private postwoman. She ran back into the shop and breathed. In her frustrated state, she found providence in her own selfish sense. Shackles in her mind began to drop and clink to the floor of her consciousness. She retied her ponytail and listened to the hum of the wheels going over the wooden ramps. A sense of satisfaction washed over her. Chanda had never felt like this before now. 

It was not God or society that had driven her to this high point in her life. She had discovered for herself the power of looking internally and exhibiting her ideas into the real world. She had done the improbable, but not the impossible. What made her glad took her to a place that she thought she couldn’t reach. It wasn’t the money, though that was a major part of it. The idea of the money being used in an egoistic way lay upon her mind. That burden that once brought her down had been eliminated. Unlike the festival which saw people engaged in throwing matches of muck and mire, Chanda felt rinsed of all the nonsense that swirled around her. This marked the emancipation of Chanda. This would be her declaration to the world.

Chintan Jani

Smartystan

The Emancipation of Chanda

Chanda sent home money every two weeks. In a small village in India, she deposited money into the bank account of her Aunt and Uncle who sent her to live in America. The place seemed so remote, almost cut off from  the rest of the country. There, a festival took place where participants hurled cow eliminations at each other. The muddy, mucky sense of it had been known for centuries. Locals tied it to an ancient god who they believed restored people’s health with the cow plops. During the festival, thick patties hurled through the air and smushed into the bodies and faces of those rollicking around in the filth. 



Smartystan

The Emancipation of Chanda

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Smartystan

The Emancipation of Chanda

This is an Exclusive Story for supporters of .css-13w9qce-Text{display:inline-block;color:var(--text-accent);}Skyler Saunders

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Skyler Saunders

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T.I. Previews Final Album "Kill The King" With New Pharrell-Produced Single

This is an Exclusive Story for supporters of Skyler Saunders