As soon as she entered the lift, she saw two women looking something at a phone. Through their conjoined heads, she realized that it was something juicy, with the way they were giggling. 

She stood to one corner, away from the duo. Privacy in a lift was more critical than in a crowded street. 

“I can’t believe she would wear this. It’s so tacky.” The tall one said. She swiped, her thumb flying away rapidly, obviously swiping through the pictures. 

Neeru realized that it was Instagram the two women were scouring. She saw that gleam of judgment that enters one’s eye when deep into others' profiles, mentally cataloging comments and perceptions. Usually, it’s followed by a virtual comment, almost always dishonest. 

She sighed inwardly. She didn’t want to be judged this way. Thank god she didn’t have any social media. 

The lift opened, and a tall black man entered. Neerja realized that he was a student. Young and skinny, he looked no more than twenty. 

And almost instantly, their energy changed. The two women, who weren’t bothered before to claim the majority of the small lift space, shuffled to one side, away from Neeru and the black man. 

Neeru realized that he, too, noticed that. He turned to look at her, almost as if checking his neighbor within this cramped space. Their eyes met. And Neeru has a brief, polite smile that you offer strangers; he smiled back and looked ahead. 

The two women started to talk in Hindi. 

“Wow, he looks so ugly. Look at those lips.” 

“I know. They all come here from other countries. From Africa.” 

“What do they do here in Delhi?” 

Neeru realized that they both were clearly on Instagram, finding a subject nearby to discuss quite openly. She also realized that they were not that bothered to use the word ‘Africa’, not realizing that the man would know they were talking about him. 

There has been an influx of Nigerians in recent years in Delhi. Neeru had seen some in her locality, mainly couples and kids; she hasn’t given them much thought. Like this hospital lift, different people were part of Delhi, making it Delhi. 

She liked her Delhi. 

“I don’t know. Maybe he’s a student.”  

The tall one replied, and Neeru snapped back to their conversation. She didn’t know why, but she felt awful. For this young man, a boy, actually, given how lanky he looked. 

“Do you think he is a student at a nearby college? There is one here.” 

The lift door opened, and nobody came in. The man pressed the button. 

“He knows how the lift works,” the other woman continued in Hindi. “Do they have lifts in Africa?” 

“Maybe, they are very poor there.” 

Neeru’s floor was about to arrive, and she realized it was also the man’s floor. 

“Poor and ugly. They all look such a blackey. Big mouth and black skin.” 

“Yeah, real ugly.” 

The lift door opened. Neeru started to move but was halted by the man in front. He turned towards the two women and smiled. 

A sweet, gentle smile. 

“It’s better to have an ugly face than an ugly heart.” He said in perfect Hindi. 

Neeru was stunned. And looking at the two women, so were they. 

The man turned and shifted his body, motioning Neeru to get off first while holding the lift door open. 

Neeru stepped out of the lift, the younger man following her. Before they could go in what was opposite directions, she turned and saw the lift door close on two very embarrassed women. 

“Sorry about them,” she said in English. As if saying it in Hindi was something she couldn’t do right now. The language had been used to cause hurt to another person, a foreign person at that. Only moments ago. “Not all are like them.” 

“I know,” the gentleman replied. Looking closer, he seemed almost a teenager. Too young to go through this. But many do. Everywhere around the world. 

Neeru smiled, and he smiled back. And they waved each other goodbye. 

There was still hope. Somewhere. Just like outside this lift. 

 

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