Maid and Mistress

By Anita Kainthla

Aparna was perturbed; her hands moved from her hip to her forehead and back and lips now tightly pursed and now loosely parted held four finger tips in a gesture of nail-biting. She added two inches to her average 156 centimeters by standing on her toes, attempting to see over the cluster of guava trees whose branches canopied the bedroom balcony. Outside the small garden gate, the usual morning scenes established and erased themselves on the canvas of the road at a monotonous pace. Office- goers shuffled up and down the bus queue, milkmen and newspaper boys furiously pedaled their bicycles, beggars and hawkers chose the best spots and the traffic was already heavy and hazy in its own exhaust. Aparna frantically searched for the diminutive figure of Laxmi, made bold only by the garish gloss of the latter’s cheap synthetic sarees. But Laxmi was nowhere in sight.

“Laxmi, Laxmi, Laxmi, please come soon”, she whispered desperately. In the last six months Laxmi had never missed a single day of work. Everyone envied Aparna for having a diligent maid like Laxmi.

Just six months ago Aparna had moved to Chennai with her banker husband Suneil and soon after reaching she’d grown a huge admiration for its relatively slow paced metro meter and deeply imbedded culture current. She could stay here forever. And then to get a maid like Laxmi, life was largely satisfactory for her. However, after the initial months of comfortable complacency, patches of tedium set into her days. Suneil, as always, was all husband and no companion and the two teenage daughters were in various stages of pubescent distancing from the parents. Aparna applied for lecturer-ship in the Madras and Annamalai Universities but there were no vacancies in the Economics department in either. Her applications were returned with polite refusals, promising to consider her on priority whenever there was an opening. She was over- qualified with her Ph. D in Economics yet she took up a job as a high school teacher to punctuate her monotonous solitude, which had grown from a narrow tract to a vast stretch.

She checked her watch again. It was 8.30 and still no sign of Laxmi; Laxmi usually began work at 7. In her absence the house lay buried under the mound of morning mess. Everywhere work lay scattered like gaping wounds- unmade beds and unwashed dishes and laundry begged to be treated. If Laxmi doesn’t turn up in the next half hour, she thought, what will I do? House- work was alien territory to her; she hadn’t got a chance to be broken in. Blame it on the readily available large populace of poverty stricken unemployed in our country or carry the guilt of being an over-educated lousy house-wife- Aparna was not the one to comply with the second option.

Just then the door bell tinkled and Aparna let out a long sigh. But it was only ‘amma’, the middle-aged lady cook.

“Amma, thank god at least you have come. I’m getting late for school. What happened to Laxmi?”

“Ma, Laxmi won’t come today”, amma spoke little and her syntax was an interesting soup of Tamil and Hindi.

“Why?”

“Her husband came home drunk yesterday night and beat her”.

“Beat her? Why?”

Amma shrugged, “What can you say about men ma. Laxmi said she’ll come in the evening, she said tell memsaab not to worry”.

Aparna had no time for anger, so she let the demon hibernate and fatten for the evening when she would set it upon Mohan, Laxmi’s husband. In the tall mirror of the tiny dressing area, Aparna checked herself. She straightened the large circle of a mossy-green stick-on bindi, puckered her button nose in dissatisfaction and removed the bindi. With black eyeliner she applied a single horizontal line on her forehead, passing it through the thick bush of her brows. Tiding the pleats of her green cotton saree bound by a cream border in filigreed pattern, she re-did her hair in a loose bun at the nape. For a few seconds she studied her reflection. She was beginning to look like her mother and it pinched her. At 23 she’d resolved never to let herself go but by 42 she’d let middle age rupture her resolve and establish it self all over - in the bun at her nape, in yards of matronly sarees attempting to hide her cracked heels, in small pouches of cellulite on her arms and abdomen, in the sagginess under her eyes….she looked away in revulsion, in guilt, in pity, in helplessness.

The school bus had left, so Aparna decided to take the car. But the car wasn’t in the garage. Irritation fuelled her temper- ‘Why is Suneil taking the car these days when the staff bus is so convenient?’ She was increasingly unable to comprehend her husband’s unreasonableness. The more she flung words at him the more he added them to an unreciprocated waste in a pit of silence. She couldn’t disagree when he said that he’d never been a talker, never known the subtleties of the soft expressiveness that she sought as a woman. But hadn’t she laboured to show him, to teach him, to change him, for ‘a lifetime’? Sometimes she just wanted to hold him by the shoulders and give him a good rattle maybe that way she could force something out of him.

She hired an auto- rickshaw to school and huffed up the stairs to the staff-room, still smarting from the events of the morning. Thankfully her class 10 hooligans weren’t around, she thought. It would’ve been hard for her to keep her irritation from whipping them. Summer vacations were due in a week for the teachers but the students were already into the third day of their vacations after their exams. The teachers were busy with the aftermath of exams. Correcting, counting, totaling, making columns and calculating percentages- the work was exhausting. In addition her own set of questions nagged her during the number’s game she seemed to be playing on large tabulated sheets. She needed some answers to prepare a report card of her own life but there were always several answers to each question and she was always back from where she began. It tired her. She re-tied her hair into a bun - this is how she wore it these days. Suneil had always liked her with open hair but he said nothing about the new bun she’d adopted. She checked her lips in the hand mirror- the gloss had gone as usual, Suneil used to say she ate more lipstick than food or water in a day. She smiled at the memory and put on some gloss. It was 12.30. Aparna wanted to get home to settle Laxmi’s matter but felt a great urge for coffee, so she went down to the canteen. Thankfully there were no other teachers there except the shy physical instructor who wouldn’t bother her with more than a ‘Hello’. Aparna was sure he had a crush on her and it flattered her momentarily.

At two she reached home and found that Amma had washed the dishes and cooked lunch but the laundry was still unwashed and the bedroom cluttered. She hastily began tidying the bedroom not wanting Suneil to see her helplessness in Laxmi’s absence. But Suneil caught her struggling to smoothen the bedspread with her hair slipping out in untidy wisps.

“Didn’t Laxmi come today?” He would have gathered from the tell tales thought Aparna – the dust draped furniture, the many disarrayed cushions, wet towels still lying limply on the arm of a chair etc.

“No. Amma was saying that Mohan beat her up again last night”.

“Why”? asked Suneil

“He was drunk. Amma said there’s nothing one can do about men”. Suneil looked at her with a raised eyebrow and there was nervous silence between them. Aparna hadn’t meant to say this but now it had been said. She made an unnecessary fuss laying the table and Suneil hid behind the newspaper, both attempting to subdue the reverberations of Aparna’s statement. At lunch they talked briefly about the food.

At 4 when the bell tinkled Aparna had just gone to the kitchen to make tea. Laxmi entered rubbing one black swollen eye with a dirty hand towel and sporting a tattered bandage on one arm. In place of her usual loud saree, she wore a gown which must’ve once been embellished with pleasant colours but when terribly faded, handed down by some magnanimous ‘memsaab’ to her. From beneath the gown peeked the trimmings of a ragged red petticoat.

“Laxmi what happened? Why did Mohan beat you?

“Memsaab, he was drunk again and I screamed at him because he had taken all the money in the house, even the money I’d kept aside for my son’s exam fee.”

Aparna knew best to let the talkative Laxmi finish.

“Then he said some bad things about me, like I go out with other men and sleep with them. He had nothing to say so he just said anything. Memsaab I put my hand over his mouth and told him that he had grown up son’s and should be ashamed of saying bad things about me. Then he started hitting me. My son held his collar and told him that if he wouldn’t stop beating me he would kill him. Memsaab I was so scared. I separated father and son. He took my ‘Manglasutra’, the only tiny gold he has ever given me memsaab. Then he went away saying he’d sell it and after a while he came back without it.”

Laxmi’s lack of stature was made tall by her youth and beauty. Her enormous kohl lined eyes and lustrous hair, complimented her polished olive skin. Mohan’s decrepitude further enhanced her delectable attributes; his allegations smacked of jealousy. But hadn’t she stopped visiting her old father, her friends and relatives, as he desired? Had she ever complained about his debts, she’d in fact borrowed money from her father to clear them. Hadn’t she contributed in running the house by working as a maid since the time they married? Despite this Mohan asked her last night to give in writing to him that she’d leave him.

“Now he wants me to go away, he wants me to leave him. I’ve heard rumours about him and another woman memsaab”, she flung her hands and looked up in helplessness.

“What more can I do memsaab? He’s never taken me to see a movie, never bought me anything, not even a string of flowers for my hair. Never says things that a man says to his wife. But I’ve given up expecting anything from him. I am tired memsaab. You are lucky, saab never says anything to you and you are educated too. I cannot live with such a man anymore memsaab”.

The tea things quivered in Aparna’s hand. The two women were caught in an awkward moment, two women utterly disjointed in the world as maid and mistress but in reality inextricably conjoined in their womanliness. Laxmi ended the awkwardness by carrying the tea into the dining room. “Laxmi I’ll talk to Mohan later, tell him to come and see me”, Aparna said.

“So what did Laxmi tell you?” asked Suneil.

Aparna narrated the story to Suneil expending the infinite number of words that a woman needs to everyday.

“I’ll be going for a conference on Friday”, Suneil said, as though waiting merely for Aparna to conclude her monologue.

“Uh- Huh?” Aparna was so involved in Laxmi’s story, she wasn’t sure what Suneil had said.

“Aren’t you listening? I’ll be going out of town for a conference on Friday”, he repeated without looking at her.

“When will you return?”

“I think it’ll take about a week”.

“A week! So long? Where are you going?”

“I’ll be going to umm… uh… I don’t know yet. Its not been decided”, his tone was faltering.

“It’s already Tuesday and they haven’t decided yet?”

Suneil shrugged in reply and downed his last sip of tea. After tea Laxmi brought Mohan to the house and Aparna did most of the talking and anger venting on the slightly drunk Mohan.

“What’s your problem Mohan? Why did you beat Laxmi? You do it next time we’ll report you to the police”, Suneil’s admonishing began and ended here.

Aparna took over impatiently, “You should shave off this big moustache and, wear bangles and sit at home. You call yourself a man and think it’s your right to hit your wife?”

Mohan mumbled in Tamil, “What is he saying?” Aparna asked Laxmi.

“Memsaab he says that he wants me to give in writing that I’ll leave him”.

“What has she done? Why do you want her to go away?”

Laxmi translated from Tamil to Hindi. Mohan was expecting Laxmi’s father to give him some money from the land the latter had sold. But considering his drinking binges the old man deposited 20.000 Rs in Laxmi’s account, leaving the drunkard son-in-law high and dry. Now Mohan was trying to threaten her with divorce but she’d endured enough and wasn’t scared anymore, she said. A few admonitions later Aparna dismissed the couple after extracting a promise from Mohan that he wouldn’t drink and beat Laxmi again.

“I’m going out with Navin. Don’t wait for me for dinner”, said Suneil. He’d dressed while Aparna was acting peace-maker. Hesitantly she asked, “Can I come with you? It’s been a long time since I’ve eaten out”.

“You can’t come. We are going to the bar”, and that was that.

Aparna ate her bread and soup in front of the TV, listening to the news. Later she began watching ‘Armageddon’ on HBO, for the fourth time. Intermittently through the movie she dozed and awoke until 11.30. Suneil was still out. Aparna made coffee and resumed her seat in front of the TV. At six in the morning she opened her eyes and two minutes later the alarm went off in the bedroom. Aparna had slept on the sofa. The TV was still on. In the bedroom Suneil was sprawled on the bed. Aparna looked at him for a while and then went into the kitchen to make tea. At 7 Laxmi was there with the swollen eye and the same tattered bandage on her arm but the hand-me-down gown was replaced by her familiar flashy saree.

“Memsaab Amma won’t be coming for the next three days. Her brother-in-law expired of cancer last night”, Laxmi said.

“First you and now Amma,” Aparna smiled at Laxmi, “What’ll I do about the cooking now?”

“Memsaab I’ve already arranged for an ayah who’ll cook till our Amma comes back. She’s a nice lady and knows me well”.

“Laxmi how I will manage without you?” Aparna looked at her maid with genuine affection.

On Friday Suneil called Aparna at school to tell her he would be leaving for Hyderabad that evening. She’d almost forgotten about his going. Later Laxmi helped her pack a few sandwiches for him. After he left Aparna settled in for the first in the series of alone nights. On Laxmi’s front there was a speedy recovery. No sooner had the swollen eye and bandage gone, the kohl returned to her eyes and oil to her hair. Then one day the ‘mangalsutra’ appeared, dangling from her neck in a yellow thread, as she bent to sweep the floor. On amma’s front however, all didn’t seem right- it was the fifth day and hadn’t returned to work. Laxmi had no news of her, “There’s no one at her house memsaab. I’m getting worried”.

“I’m worried too Laxmi. Amma always sticks to her word”. On the night of the sixth day of Amma’s absence, Laxmi and Aparna’s intuitiveness proved right. At 10.45 in the night, Aparna and the girls were watching TV when the doorbell tinkled. They exchanged looks with brows knitted in apprehension.

“Who is it?” asked Aparna

“Memsaab memsaab it’s Laxmi. Please open the door. Something dreadful has happened”.

Aparna quickly opened the door to a crying Laxmi. Laxmi spoke immediately through her tears, “Memsaab Amma is dead. She committed suicide today in the evening”.

“What?” Aparna’s loud query echoed partly inside the house and partly in the empty night. “Memsaab her husband had lost everything in horse races; their small bakery, which his father had started, all the savings, Amma’s jewelry, he’d lost everything. Yesterday Amma came to know that he’d sold off their younger daughter in order to pay some debt. Today in the evening, Amma threw herself in front of a train”.

“But she never told me anything”, said Aparna with surprise, “She looked so content. No one could ever guess she was suffering”.

“Amma was like a saint memsaab, never spoke ill of even a dog. For so long she carried her pain and now it has carried her away”.

Aparna was so shaken by Amma’s suicide that she didn’t realize Suneil had been gone for ten days. She’d called him several times initially but he was always either in a meeting, having lunch with a client or too tired to talk in the night. For the past three days they hadn’t conversed. It was only when Laxmi asked her when ‘saab’ was returning, she realized how long he’d been gone. But she couldn’t bring herself to call him. Had it been worry she wouldn’t have wasted a minute but it was fear, which challenged her courage. Over the next two days, fear won the battle. Aparna did nothing peacefully, her restiveness was remarked upon by colleagues, kids and even Laxmi. Then two weeks after he had gone, Suneil called Aparna. Her fear became a person.

“I want a divorce. There’s no use going on like this. I’ll send you the papers. We’ll discuss the details later”, Suneil said without a preamble. For the first time Aparna was glad that Suneil wasn’t a talker.

“Who is she?”

“Shruti, my colleague. You’ve met her”.

This was the end of their conversation- curt and cruel. Immediately numbness congealed her. She tried summoning every emotion from pain to pity to sorrow to heartache but nothing came. She was alone; everything had deserted her in the face of fear. What an emotional paralysis she thought! There was almost nothing to battle the large person that her fear had become. More than the loneliness itself, its fear gripped her. She got up quickly and went to the girls’ room; she couldn’t be alone with herself.

The next morning began usually- the alarm went off at six, Aparna made two cups of tea, the girls left for school and Laxmi arrived at seven. At eight Aparna was still sitting vacantly on the swing with the empty tea cup. “Memsaab you aren’t going to school today? Its already eight”, said Laxmi. Aparna looked at her and said, “Saab is never coming back Laxmi”.

“What are you saying memsaab? What happened?” Laxmi let the broom drop and went to Aparna.

“What can you say about men Laxmi. He has left me. I’m scared, I’m alone, all alone”.

The talkative Laxmi wordlessly wrapped her arms around her memsaab and began to sniff. Aparna melted and clung to her maid. For a long time the two women sat in a huddle and hollowed their insides.

“You aren’t alone memsaab, I’m there with you. I’ll never leave you”, said Laxmi firmly and then supported Aparna into the house.

By Anita Kainthla