It is five-thirty in the morning. A massive colony of tin-roofed shacks situated next to a drainage canal on the outskirts of Hyderabad is just beginning to wake up. Inside those cramped rooms huddled close together, the sound of whirring fans echoes. The rattling resonance of the tin sheets is far louder than the noise of the fans themselves.

Lakshmi switched on the light in her narrow tin room. Looking at her sleeping son, she gently stroked his head. Driven by the lack of employment in their village, Lakshmi’s family had migrated to the city. Back in their village, they owned a tiny house and a small piece of land... but it was hardly enough to survive on. Ever since tractors, JCB excavators, and mechanical harvesters took over, finding manual farm labor has become an immense struggle.

Lakshmi’s husband, Lingayya, works as a mason at construction sites. Briskly cooking rice, Lakshmi got herself ready to go cook meals at three different apartments.

“Listen, my son, go to school on time and study hard,” she told her son, setting out of the house by seven-thirty. She harbored a deep desire to enroll her son in a private residential boarding school the following year. If both parents went out for their respective jobs, there would be no one left behind to look after his education.

Lakshmi cooks at three households. After moving to the city, she mastered cooking all varieties of dishes. Her employers initially trained her. Two of them pay her six thousand rupees a month. Another pays eight thousand rupees, as the workload in that house is heavy. She never waits around for the breakfast they might offer. She quietly finishes her chores and leaves. She prepares rice, dal, two curries, sambar, and makes chapatis for the evening. Over weekends, the workload increases a bit, requiring her to prepare special dishes like mutton biryani.

In the adjacent tin room, Saramma was already busy fetching water from the public tap. Though her room was tiny, she organized the house neatly and woke her husband up. Her husband, Narsayya, took a bath and hit the road with his autorickshaw. Saramma set out for her domestic helper chores by seven in the morning.

...She works at four households. They pay her three thousand rupees each per month, bringing twelve thousand rupees into her hands. She does not know how to cook. Her chores involve washing dishes in large apartments, sweeping the floors, and hanging out the clothes to dry after the madams wash them in the washing machine. Sometimes, looking at those vast, luxurious homes, a wistful longing grips Saramma: “How wonderful it would be if we could at least own a tiny tiled house of our own.”

By the time Saleema, who lives in a cramped room in Moosapet, woke up, her husband seemed to have already left. Her husband, Sabir, operates a pushcart vegetable vending business. Early in the morning, he visits the Monda Market to fetch fresh vegetables in an autorickshaw. By the time Sabir returns, their son has already left for school. Saleema was waiting precisely for Sabir’s arrival. The moment Sabir stepped in, she handed over the household responsibilities to him and set out for work. Saleema does basic domestic cleaning and sweeping. In the evenings, she sits as a receptionist at a doctor’s clinic. In the afternoon, if any time remains after lunch, she sits by her husband’s pushcart vegetable stand. During those moments, Sabir finds a spot under the shade of a tree and reclines for a brief rest.

Mangamma lives in a tiny room situated in the basement of an apartment complex. She and her husband, Shiva Rajam, joined there as watchmen. Back in their village, employment opportunities dwindled significantly after tractors and JCB excavators took over. Shiva Rajam wakes up early in the morning to clean four cars in the apartment complex, earning an additional income. Mangamma sits near the gate, managing security. Mangamma harbors grand aspirations. She works across three flats. When her husband Shiva Rajam irons the clothes, it is her duty to deliver them back to the respective residents. Whenever she witnesses the large, luxurious cars rolling into the apartment complex, Mangamma wishes from the depths of her heart for a day to dawn when her children, too, would ride in such cars.

The clock ticked past one in the afternoon. The soothing shade of a large neem tree nestled in a corner of a prominent park on Jubilee Hills is always waiting to welcome these four women. Having raced alongside the frantic speed of the city since morning, these four working-class women gathered there. If she doesn’t meet them, Mangamma finds no peace of mind.

Lakshmi arrived just then, breathless and running, wiping away her sweat, sighing, “Ah...Today, there was a feast at one of the employer’s houses... all my time was spent just cooking it,” Lakshmi said, pulling out her lunch box.

Just then, Saramma sat down, clutching her lower back. “These days, apartments have become so massive... by the time I finish sweeping and mopping the house, my back feels completely broken,” she lamented.

Saleema joined them, looking quite exhausted. “My husband stayed back at the vegetable pushcart today because the sun is too harsh; I came over here just to have my lunch,” she said.

Finally, Mangamma arrived and sat down with them. “My husband has been busy since morning repairing a broken borewell motor. I was looking after the security gate and managed to come just now,” she said.

The four women opened their lunch carriers. Pickles, rice, pearl millet (sajja) rotis... they began sharing and serving each other. Setting her box aside, Lakshmi pulled out hot idlis and vadas from a cover. “Look at this, my madam packed this breakfast in my box today, saying it was extra after she made it for her children in the morning. That madam has a heart of gold. She feels deeply for our hardships. I have seen her children staying awake all through the night, immersed in their higher studies. Just watching them... fills me with a restless longing to see my son study like that too,” Lakshmi said with a deep sense of yearning.

Chewing on a piece of roti, Saramma agreed, “True, Akka. My madam is just the same. The other day, when the school authorities were troubling us because we didn’t have enough money to pay my daughter’s fees, madam handed me five thousand rupees out of her own pocket, completely apart from my monthly salary.”

“Whenever I see the children of those wealthy folks’ heading to colleges early in the morning in luxury cars... it makes me wish from the depths of my soul that my children, too, would live with such dignity someday,” she added.

Their chatter slowly drifted toward memories of their native villages. Saleema let out a heavy sigh. “No matter how many hardships we endure here in the city, at least our children remain right before our eyes. Back in my village, my younger sister sent her husband to a Gulf country at such a tender age. Heaven knows what scorching heat he is enduring out there... while over here, she just sits there holding her children and weeping. If there were enough jobs in our own villages, who on earth would migrate across so many countries and cities, Akka?” Saleema said in a voice heavy with grief.

The moment she heard those words, tears welled up in Mangamma’s eyes.

“My heart completely freezes whenever I am reminded of that Covid era. Back in our village, Asireddy’s son used to work in construction here in the city. During that lockdown, with no work in sight, no food to eat, and no buses operating, he set out on foot toward the village. He perished from a severe heatstroke halfway through his journey. Upon hearing the news of his tragic demise, his mother’s heart broke, and she passed away too. We witnessed those dark days when proper funerals weren’t even performed for the deceased... After witnessing those horrifying struggles, we realized that as long as we are alive, it is enough—we can survive on any small job that comes our way. That is why we settled into this watchman work,” she recounted, looking back at their past.

A heavy silence enveloped the space for a brief while following her words. All the unspoken misery they had hoarded within the walls of their cramped tin rooms, all the traumatic wounds of the Covid era... they laid them bare to one another beneath the shade of that sprawling tree, easing the weight on their hearts. The cruel blows dealt with by society, and the heartwarming generosity displayed by a few within that very same society... both had interwoven to become an inseparable part of their life’s journey.

“Nevertheless, the days that have passed are gone. All our toil is solely for the education of these children, isn’t it? Once they settle down in life, it will be as if the dense darkness hovering behind our tin houses has dissolved forever,” Saramma remarked, infusing courage into everyone.

“True, Akka... our boy has set up a computer right inside that small watchman cabin and studies there. My only hope is to see him become a big officer someday,” Mangamma added, her face lighting up with a smile once more.

The clock ticked past two in the afternoon. Lunch hour concluded. All four of them rose, ready to race once more alongside the frantic velocity of the city. Though their hands held empty lunch boxes, their hearts were overflowing with vibrant hopes for their children’s future and a profound maturity born out of the raw experiences’ life had thrown at them.

Lakshmi walked back toward her cooking, Saramma toward her domestic chores, Saleema toward her vegetable pushcart, and Mangamma toward her apartment gate. The magnificent metropolis of Hyderabad thrives solely on their sweat. It thrives; the light of tomorrow is taking shape solely through the vibrant hopes of the children growing up inside those tin shacks.

The clock ticked past two in the afternoon. From a distance, the roar of traffic and the blaring of car honks began to echo loudly once more. The lunch hour concluded, and the relentless hum of the city seemed to issue a stern reminder.

Packing her empty tiffin box, Lakshmi said, “Alright, Akka, I will leave now. The chaotic rush for the night’s cooking will begin all over again.”

Concealing the painful cracks on her feet, Saramma walked out into the colony street. The financial help of five thousand rupees extended by her madam remained etched in her heart as a living testament to the goodness that still survives in society.

“Though our villages mock us, this city nurtures us. It is right here that the destinies of our children must change,” Saleema reflected as she stood firmly behind her pushcart, raising her voice to strike up a vegetable bargain.

Mangamma walked back and took her post by the massive apartment gate. Inside the security cabin, open English textbooks belonging to her son lay neatly on a small table. Amid the cacophony of horns from the large, luxurious cars crossing the gate, she could hear a clear, distinct sound echoing from her son’s future.

The sun was dipping toward the west... Saleema set out toward the doctor’s clinic. The metropolis accelerated its frantic pace even further. Though machines had invaded their villages and snatched away their manual livelihoods, these four women refused to accept defeat. Migrating into the concrete jungle of Hyderabad... they transformed themselves into cooks, domestic helpers, vegetable vendors, and watchmen, offering themselves as the flowers of sweat that grease the wheels of this urban life. If they were to disappear for even a single week, the entire existence of the city would descend into absolute chaos.

The magnificent metropolis of Hyderabad shines brightly not merely due to its towering skyscrapers... but because of the radiant dreams of these working-class mothers, who languish inside tin shacks while giving birth to a generation destined to transform the nation.