“Be careful,” she said, though he’d finished. He handed her the lathi. She gripped it with numb fingers, nearly dropped it, gripped it.
“Okay,” he said. “Okay.” He shook his head. “The people in there don’t know anything about you or what you do. They are a little, you know, old-fashioned.” He smiled and seemed to be remembering something. “Very old fashioned, in some cases. And they’re not very good with children. Young people, I mean.” He held up his hands as she raised her lathi. “I only mean to warn you.” He considered her. “Maybe you could cover your face again?”
Yasmin considered this for a moment. Of course, she didn’t want to cover her face. She wanted to just go in as herself. Why shouldn’t she be able to? But wearing the hijab had some advantages, and one was that no one would ask you why you were covering your face. Ashok had clearly believed she was much older until she’d undraped it.
Wordlessly, she unpinned the fabric, brought it across her face, and repinned it. He gave her a happy thumbs up and said, “All right! They’re good people, you know. Very good people. They want to be on our side.” He swallowed, thought some, rocked his chin from side to side. “But perhaps they don’t know that yet.”
He marched to the door, which was made of heavy metal screen over glass, and opened it, then gestured inside with a grand sweep of his arm. Trying to look as dignified as possible, she stepped into the gloom of the trailer, where it was cool and smelled of betel and chai and bleach, and where a lazy ceiling fan beat the air, trailing long snot-trails of dust.
This was what she noticed first, and not the people sitting around the room on sofas and easy-chairs. Those people were sunk deep into their chairs and sitting silently, their eyes lost in shadow. But after a moment, they began to shift minutely, staring at her. Ashok entered behind her and said, “Hello! Hello! I’m glad you could all make it!”
And then they stood, and they were all much older than her, much older than Ashok. The youngest was her mother’s age, and he was fat and sleek and had great jowls and short hair in a fringe around his ears. There were three others, another man in kurta pyjamas with a Muslim skull cap and two very old women in saris that showed the wrinkled skin on their bellies.
Ashok introduced them around, Mr. Phadkar of the steelworkers’ union, Mr. Honnenahalli of the transport and dock workers’ union, and Mrs. Rukmini and Mrs. Muthappa, both from the garment workers’ union. “These good people are interested in Big Sister Nor’s work and so she asked me to bring you round to talk to them. Ladies and gentlemen, this is Yasmin, a trusted activist within the IWWWW organization. She is here to answer your questions.”
They all greeted her politely, but their smiles never reached their eyes. Ashok busied himself in a corner where there was a chai pot and cups, pouring out masala chai for everyone and bringing it around on a tray. “I will be your chai-wallah,” he said. “You just all talk.”
Yasmin’s throat was terribly dry, but she was veiled, and so she passed on the chai, but quickly regretted it as the talk began.
“I understand that your ‘work’ is just playing games, is that right?” said Mr. Honnenahalli, the fat man who worked with the Transport and Dock Workers’ union.
“We work in the games, yes,” Yasmin said.
“And so you organize people who play games. How are they workers? They sound like players to me. In the transport trade, we work.”
Yasmin rocked her chin from side to side and was glad of her veil. She remembered her talk with Sushant. “We work the way anyone works, I suppose. We have a boss who asks us to do work, and he gets rich from our work.”
That made the two old aunties smile, and though it was dark in the room, she thought it was genuine.
“Sister,” said Mr. Phadkar, he in the skullcap, “tell us about these games. How are they played?”
So she told them, starting with Zombie Mecha, aided by the fact that Mr. Phadkar had actually seen one of the many films based on the game. But as she delved into character classes, leveling up, unlocking achievements, and so on, she saw that she was losing them.
“It all sounds very complicated,” Mr. Honnenahalli said, after she had spoken for a good thirty minutes, and her throat was so dry it felt like she had eaten a mouthful of sand and salt. “Who plays these games? Who has time?”
This was something she often heard from her father, and so she told Mr. Honnenahalli what she always told him. “Millions of people, rich and poor, men and women, boys and girls, all over the world. They spend crores and crores of rupees, and thousands and thousands of hours. It’s a game, yes, but it’s also as complicated as life in some ways.”
Mr. Honnenahalli twisted his face up into a sour lemon expression. “People in life make things that matter. They don’t just—” He flapped a hand, miming some kind of pointless labor. “They don’t just press buttons and play make-believe.”
She felt her cheeks coloring and was glad again of the veil. Ashok held up a hand. “If a humble chai-wallah may intervene here.” Mr. Honnenahalli gave him a hostile look, but he nodded. “‘Pressing buttons and playing make-believe’ describes several important sectors of the economy, not least the entire financial industry. What is banking, if not pressing buttons and asking everyone to make believe that the outcomes have value?”
The old aunties smiled and Mr. Honnenahalli grunted. “You’re a clever bugger, Ashok. You can always be clever, but clever doesn’t feed people or get them a fair deal from their employers.”
Ashok nodded as though this point had never occurred to him, though Yasmin was pretty certain from his smile that he’d expected this, too. “Mr. Honnenahalli, there are over nine million people working in this industry, and it turns over five hundred crore rupees every year. It’s averaging six percent quarterly growth. And eight of the twenty largest economies in the world are not countries, they’re games, issuing their own currency, running their own fiscal policies, and setting their own labor laws.”
Mr. Honnenahalli scowled, making his jowls wobble, and raised his eyebrows. “They have labor policies in these games?”
“Oh yes,” Ashok said. “Their policy is that no one may work in their worlds without their permission, that they have absolute power to set wages, hire and fire, that they can exile you if they don’t like you or for any other reason, and that anyone caught violating the rules can be stripped of all virtual property and expelled without access to a trial, a judge, or elected officials.”
That got their attention. Yasmin filed away that description. She’d heard Big Sister Nor say similar things, but this was better put than any previous rendition. And there was no denying its effect on the room—they jolted as if they’d been shocked and all opened their mouths to say something, then closed them.
Finally, one of the aunties said, “Tell me, you say that nine million people work in these places: where? Bangalore? Pune? Kolkata?” These were the old IT cities, where the phone banks and the technology companies were.
Ashok nodded, “Some of them there. Some right here in Mumbai.” He looked at Yasmin, clearly waiting for her to say something.
“I work in Dharavi,” she said. And did she imagine it, or did their noses all wrinkle up a little, did they all subtly shift their weight away from her, as though to escape the shit-smell of a Dharavi girl?
“She works in Dharavi,” Ashok said. “But only a million or two work here in India. The majority are in China, or Indonesia, or Vietnam. Some are in South America, some are in the United States. Wherever there is IT, there are people who work in the games.”
Now the auntie sat back. “I see,” she said. “Well, that’s very interesting, Ashok, but what do we have to do with China? We’re not in China.”
Yasmin shook her head. “The game isn’t in China,” she said, as though explaining something to a child. “The game is everywhere. The players are all in the same place.”
Mr. Phadkar said, “You don’t understand, sister. Workers in these places compete with our worke
rs. The big companies go wherever the work is cheapest and most unorganized. Our members lose jobs to these people, because they don’t have the self-respect to stand up for a fair wage. We can’t compete with the Chinese or the Indonesians or the Vietnamese—even the beggars here expect better wages than they command!”
Mr. Honnenahalli patted his belly and nodded. “We are Indian workers. We represent them. These workers, what happens to them—it’s none of our affair.”
Ashok nodded. “Well, that’s fine for your unions and your members. But the union that Yasmin works for—”
Mr. Honnenahalli snorted, and his jowls shook. “It’s not a union,” he said. “It’s a gang of kids playing games!”
“It’s tens of thousands of organized workers in solidarity with one another,” Ashok said, mildly, as though he were a teacher correcting a student. “In fourteen countries. Look, these players, they’re already organized in guilds. That’s practically unions already. You worry that union jobs in India might become non-union jobs in Vietnam—well, here’s how you can organize the workers in Vietnam, too! The companies are multinational—why should labor still stick to borders? What does a border mean, anyway?”
“Plenty, if the border is with Pakistan. People die for borders, sonny. You can sit there, with your college education, and talk about how borders don’t matter, but all that means is that you’re totally out of touch with the average Indian worker. Indian workers want Indian jobs, not jobs for Chinese or what-have-you. Let the Chinese organize the Chinese.”
“They are,” Yasmin broke in. “They’re striking in China right now! A whole factory walked out, and the police beat them down. And I helped them with their picket line!”
Mr. Honnenahalli prepared to bluster some more, but one of the old aunties laid a frail hand on his forearm. “How did you help with a picket-line in China from Dharavi, daughter?”
And so Yasmin told them the story of the battle of Mushroom Kingdom, and the story of the battle of Shenzhen, and what she’d seen and heard.
“Wildcat strikes,” Mr. Honnenahalli said. “Craziness. No strategy, no organization. Doomed. Those workers may never see the light of day again.”
“Not unless their comrades rally to them,” Ashok said. “Comrades like Yasmin and her group. You want to see something workers are prepared to fight for? You need to get to an internet cafe and see. See who is out of touch with workers. You can talk all you want about ‘Indian workers,’ but until you find solidarity with all workers, you’ll never be able to protect your precious Indian workers.” He was losing his temper now, losing that school-masterish cool. “Those workers got bad treatment from their employer so they went out. Their jobs can just be moved—to Vietnam, to Cambodia, to Dharavi—and their strike broken. Can’t you see it? We finally have the same tools as the bosses! For a factory owner, all places are the same, and it’s no difference whether the shirts are sewn here or there, so long as they can be loaded onto a shipping container when it’s done. But now, for us, all places are the same too! We can go anywhere just by sitting down at a computer. For forty years, things have gotten harder and harder for workers—now it’s time to change that.”
Yasmin felt herself grinning beneath the veil. That’s it, Ashok, give it to him! But then she saw the faces of the old people in the room: stony and heartless.
“Those are nice words,” one of the aunties said. “Honestly. It’s a beautiful vision. But my workers don’t have computers. They don’t go to internet cafes. They dye clothing all day. When their jobs go abroad, they can’t chase them with your computers.”
“They can be part of the Webblies too!” Yasmin said. “That’s the beauty of it. The ones who work in games, we can go anywhere, organize anywhere, and wherever your workers are, we are too! We can go anywhere, no one can keep us out. We can organize dyers anywhere, through the gamers.”
Mr. Honnenahalli nodded. “I thought so. And when this is all done, the Webblies organize all the workers in the world, and our unions, what happens to them? They melt away? Or they’re absorbed by you? Oh yes, I understand very well. A very neat deal all around. You certainly do play games over there at the Webblies.”
Ashok and Yasmin both started to speak at once, then both stopped, then exchanged glances. “It’s not like that,” Yasmin said. “We’re offering to help. We don’t want to take over.”
Mr. Honnenahalli said, “Perhaps you don’t, but perhaps someone else does. Can you speak for everyone? You say you’ve never met this Big Sister Nor of yours, nor her lieutenants, The Mighty What ever and Justbob.”
“I’ve met them dozens of times,” Yasmin said quietly.
“Oh, certainly. In the game. What is the old joke from America? On the internet, nobody knows you’re a dog. Perhaps these friends of yours are old men or little children. Perhaps they’re in the next internet cafe in Dharavi. The internet is full of lies and tricks and filth, little sister—” Her back stiffened. It was one thing to be called ‘sister,’ but ‘little sister’ wasn’t friendly. It was a dismissal. “And who’s to say you haven’t fallen for one of these tricks?”
Ashok held up a hand. “Perhaps this is all a dream, then. Perhaps you are all figments of my imagination. Why should we believe in anything, if this is the standard all must rise to? I’ve spoken to Big Sister Nor many times, and to many other members of the IWWWW around the world. You represent two million construction workers—how many of them have you met? How are we to know that they are real?”
“This is getting us all nowhere,” one of the aunties said. “You were very kind to come and visit with us, Ashok, and you, too, Yasmin. It was very courteous for you to tell us what you were up to. Thank you.”
“Wait,” Ashok said. “That can’t be all! We came here to ask you for help—for solidarity. We’ve just had our first strike, and our executive cell is offline and missing—” Yasmin turned her head at this. What did that mean? “And we need help: a strike fund, administrative support, legal assistance—”
“Out of the question,” Mr. Honnenahalli said.
“I’m afraid so,” said Mr. Phadkar. “I’m sorry, brother. Our charter doesn’t allow us to intervene with other unions—especially not the sort of organization you represent.”
“It’s impossible,” said one of the aunties, her mouth tight and sorry. “This just isn’t the sort of thing we do.”
Ashok went to the kettle and set about making more chai. “Well, I’m sorry to have wasted your time,” he said. “I’m sure we’ll figure something out.”
They all stared at one another, then Mr. Honnenahalli stood with a wheeze, picking up an overstuffed briefcase at his feet and leaving the little building. Mr. Phadkar followed, smiling softly at the aunties and waving tentatively at Yasmin. She didn’t meet his eye. One of the aunties got up and tried to say something to Ashok, but he shrugged her off. She went back to her partner and helped her to her old, uncertain feet. The pair of them squeezed Yasmin’s shoulders before departing.
Once the door had banged shut behind them, Ashok turned and hissed bainchoad at the room. Yasmin had heard worse words than this every day in the alleys of Dharavi and in the game-room when the army was fighting, and hearing it from this soft boy almost made her giggle. But she heard the choke in his voice, like he was holding back tears, and she didn’t want to smile anymore. She reached up and unhooked her hijab, repinning it around her neck, freeing her face to cool in the sultry air the fan whipped around them. She crossed to Ashok and took a cup of tea from him and sipped it as quickly as she could, relishing the warm wet against her dry, scratchy throat. Now that her face was clear of hijab, she could smell the strong reek of old betel spit, and saw that the baseboards of the scuffed walls were stained pink with old spittle.
“Ashok,” she said, using the voice she’d used to enforce discipline in the army. “Ashok, look at me. What was that—that meeting about? Why was I here?”
He sat down in the chair that Mr. Phadkar had just vacated and sipp
ed at his chai.
“Oh, I’ve made a bloody mess of it all, I have,” he said.
“Ashok,” she said, that stern note in her voice. “Complain later. Talk now. What did you just drag me halfway across Mumbai for?”
“I’ve been working on this meeting for months, ever since Big Sister Nor asked me to. I told her that I thought the trade unions here would embrace the Webblies, would see the power of a global labor movement that could organize everywhere all at once. She loved the idea, and ever since then, I’ve been sweet-talking the union execs here, trying to get them to see the potential. With their members helping us—and with our members helping them—we could change the world. Change it like that!” He snapped his fingers. “But then the strike broke out, and Big Sister Nor told me she needed help right now, otherwise those comrades would end up in jail forever, or worse. She said she thought you’d be able to help, and we were all going to talk about it before we came down, but then, when I was riding to get you—” He broke off, drank chai, stared out the grimy, screened-in windows at the manicured grounds of the film studio. “I got a call from The Mighty Krang. They were beaten. Badly. All three of them, though Krang managed to escape. Big Sister Nor is in hospital, unconscious. The Mighty Krang said he thought it was one of the Chinese factory owners—they’ve been getting meaner, sending in threats. And they’ve got lots of contacts in Singapore.”
Yasmin finished her chai. Her hair itched with dust and sweat, and she slid a finger up underneath it and scratched at a bead of sweat that was trickling down her head. “All right,” she said. “What had you hoped for from those old people?”
“Money,” he said. “Support. They have the ear of the press. If their members demanded justice for the workers in Shenzhen, rallied at the Chinese consulates all around India…” He waved his hands. “I’m not sure, to be honest. It was supposed to happen weeks from now, after I’d done a lot more whispering in their ears, finding out what they wanted, what they could give, what we could give them. It wasn’t supposed to happen in the middle of a strike.” He stared miserably at the floor.