The Daily Life of a Check Post Worker

Melissa Jenni Telles

19/UELA/059

It was a quiet day at the Villupuram check-post. Almost every day since the Corona outbreak had been quiet, save for the few people who had obtained a pass to cross the border. With the pandemic came a number of changes- the borders had gotten a lot more secure and sanitary. We were ordered to sanitize our hands and change gloves every time someone passed by the check-post. We were also being keenly monitored by the police for any malpractice.

I sat in my cramped room, trying not to doze off. Working felt very familiar, yet unfamiliar and despite having nothing to do, my hand still itched to reach out of the window of my tiny cubicle to collect money and issue a slip. Yet, the underwhelming amount of people who stopped by the Villupuram check-post served as a cruel reminder of how much the world had changed because of a virus.

A few days ago, a family with a political background went through the check-post. The man looked like he had jumped straight out of the news channel with his balding hair, yellow teeth, luscious moustache and his blinding white veshti set. He seemed like the kind of person Thanthi TV would make fun of for throwing polystyrene into the Kaveri. When I asked him for an e-pass, he laughed and gestured towards the party flag that stood proudly at the hood of his car. I glanced at the policeman stationed by the booth and he nodded. I had to let the politician pass through because that was his privilege.

About three hours later, another car arrived at the check-post again, demanding entry. A glance through their car window showed a young boy, probably the politician’s son, smiling brightly at me with a Thalapakatti parcel in hand. I did not smile back.

Another time, in the evening, a car sped towards the check-post honking aggressively. The car looked expensive, a black Porsche with a sleek design. A man rolled his tinted window down and lowered his sunglasses, looking at me with a glare. He adjusted his suit coat as if to intimidate me.

“E-pass?” I asked uninterestedly.

“Do you know who my father is?” was his reply.

Reluctantly I let him through, even though I had no clue who he or his father was. He smiled cockily; I didn’t smile back.

Last month, there had been a similar encounter. A woman had pulled up to my check-post cubicle and rolled down her window.

“E-pass please?” I had asked monotonously.

She held a shabbily folded paper out to me and I took it hoping it was a pass. However, the only thing the paper had was a signature. I looked at the lady and raised my eyebrow.

“My autograph,” she smiled. “Let me through, I’m late for shooting.”

Maybe if she had makeup on, I’d have recognized her from one of those Vijay TV serials that my wife religiously watched. The police officer who stood near my post, however, did recognize her and gestured for me to let the woman pass. It looked as though my wife, the policeman and half the population of Tamil Nadu would have been very angry with me if I had stopped this woman here and delayed the shooting schedule. So I let her cross.

My thoughts about my previous encounters were interrupted when I heard the familiar sound of a car approaching. I straightened up in my seat and looked outside the window, meeting the eyes of a tired man in his late forties. A woman, equally tired looking, sat next to him, nervous and fidgeting.

“May I have your e-pass?” I asked automatically.

“We didn’t have the time to issue an e-pass.” The man sighed, running a hand through his face.

“Then you cannot cross the border,” I replied.

The woman looked at me in panic and turned her gaze to her husband.

The man pursed his lips and looked back at me.

“My mother-in-law is in critical condition,” He said, quickly glancing at his wife and then continuing, “There’s a chance she might not be able to make it to the end of the night.”

They seemed to be telling the truth but I couldn’t let them cross, especially not with the policeman stationed in the check-post, watching me like a hawk. I gulped and checked the list of exceptions in my cubicle.

“Do you have a medical certificate or a doctor’s letter?” I asked, reading from the list.

The man turned to his wife who shook her head.

“We were in a hurry, so we didn’t have time.” He explained, flustered.

“In that case, I cannot let you through,” I said hoping there was some way I could make an exception.

“But please, we need to be there as soon as possible. Is there any way?” the man asked, desperate. If only they were associated with a political party or a businessman or maybe even had to be at a shooting.

“I’m sorry,” was all I could say.

The man sighed again and the woman wiped her tears as they pulled away from the check-post and took the road that would lead them back home. The police officer who stood adjacent to me gave me a smile and a thumbs up for doing my job well.

I didn’t smile back.