The next Saturday, regular as clockwork, Mrs. Di Silva pressed her nose to the glass door, waved at me, came in, and sat on the stool only to fall off....
COVER STORY
Looking back, I still do not quite understand what I wanted from Mr. Di Silva’s poor, sulky and uncultured attendant. I was angry that she did not look at me, and I was angry at her for haunting my thoughts just by not looking at me. I was the one who deliberately ignored women; it had never been the other way around, and now that the tables had been turned, it enraged me to know that they had been turned by a common Christian maid.
The next Saturday, regular as clockwork, Mrs. Di Silva pressed her nose to the glass door, waved at me, came in, and sat on the stool only to fall off. Having gone through the motions, she settled down across from me on the stool, a thick little finger pressing the tip of her flat nose flatter, and said, “M’dear, I’m very exasperated these days.”
“You are?” I said, thumbing through a book I had grabbed upon hearing – and recognizing – her footsteps.
“I am, m’dear.” Mrs. D. nodded. “I have decided to let Champa go.”
“Let her go?” I looked up, alert. “Why would you do that?”
“This might sound stupid, m’dear, but I think she renders me useless. She’s a fast learner, a good girl, but I suppose I have been working for such a long time that it is hard to have everything done for me by others.”
The concept of finding oneself served by others to be something unbearable was new to me and it fascinated me immensely. Having never been without the service of at the very least two servants at a time, I wondered what it was like to do everything by yourself, and couldn’t really imagine it. Mrs. Di Silva shrugged her shoulders sheepishly, almost falling off the stool again in the process.
“I am quite torn between the comfort Champa brings to us and the comfort there is in doing your own work.”
“Don’t you think Mr. Di Silva might not agree to let her go? I noticed how comfortable she makes him in everything.” I asked slowly, wondering as I said the words why I said them.
“She seems to have mastered your routine quickly.”
“That is just it, m’dear. Champa is, so useful, such a quick learner. Having her around all day feels like being on a holiday.” Mrs. Di Silva shook her head, and her carefully curled thinning hair bounced slightly around her face.
“Then remain on a holiday for life, madame. Don’t fire her.” I proposed after a minute. For the life of me, I could not understand what problem the woman had against the notion of a lifelong holiday. Why would she prefer spooning her sickly husband’s boring chickpea broth into his toothless mouth and wiping off whatever spilled onto his chin every day till she died?
She brightened up considerably after contemplating my words for a moment or two and nodded.
“You’re right, dear. I am just being stupid. Well, I had better get going. Come over this evening though, won’t you?”
“I will.” I agreed, and off she went thumping down the stairs, reminding me over and over to keep my promise. As she left the office, I heaved a breath of relief I had unknowingly held back, and in the next second I caught my puzzled face in the grimy translucent glass door. In the third second, I was cursing myself for saving the job of a snobby, tasteless, faux-pious nun of a girl who had no place in my dreams, which she had consistently been visiting for many days, quite unreasonably in my opinion.
***********
That evening, once again, I found myself in the garden of the big, empty house, sitting beside the snoozing Mr. Di Silva.
Mrs. Di Silva was knitting serenely, and Champa was sitting on the grass across from us, sewing carefully a shirt I recognized to be Mr. Di Silva’s.
In the dark, I realized reluctantly, she was somewhat beautiful. Her dark skin was smooth; its smoothness and darkness intensified by the simple white dress she wore. Her hair was tied back at her neck. It had a glossy sheen to it that I could identify even through the unlit dusk. Her eyes were narrowed in concentration. Her lips were big, fleshy, with a tinge of purple to their red that had a very enticing effect. Mr. Di Silva snorted in his sleep. She looked up quickly and saw me looking at her. Her eyes narrowed slightly, no smile I was accustomed to receiving from women I looked at was bestowed upon me. She went back to her mending, her jaw set.
Irritated, if not angry, at this arrogance, I busied myself with Mr. Di Silva, waking him up by banging my teacup onto the table and giving him my whole and undivided attention as he started talking to me about the different fertilizers he used for his plants, promising myself I would not look at Champa again.
We were on our second cups of tea when Mr. Di Silva decided to show me his roses. I got up and gripped his chair before she could leave her post, saying in a cold and indifferent voice, “Stay.”
There was something intensely satisfying in telling her to stay.
It was when I was returning, after I had admired the roses suitably, much to the gratification of the old man, that I stopped beside Champa, towering above her sitting form.
I stood there for a few seconds, waiting for her to look up. She did not. If anything, she sewed even harder, the needle moving like a small droplet of water sliding over the shirt, held between two chocolate fingers.
I do not know till this moment what possessed me to do it. The sudden, irrational rage I felt in my heart reduced my being to a mere child’s whose tantrums have been ignored. I picked up my half-filled teacup from the table and tipped it onto the shirt. Champa looked up at me. I leaned over her and banged the empty cup onto the table and stalked back to my own seat.
As I sat down, she stood up. Looking at Mr. Di Silva, she said smoothly.
“Sir, I will just go to the laundry room and put the shirt in the basket. Perhaps we will wash it before you can wear it again.”
“Is it mended?” said Mr. Di Silva, who had only just wheeled himself to the table, having stayed behind to look at his bushes.
“Quite, sir. It won’t tear again.”
“Don’t slip in the laundry room, child.” Mrs. Di Silva called from the porch. “I nearly broke my neck in there the other day. And wipe the floor if it’s wet, won’t you?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I waited for her to glance at me, to acknowledge my deed in anyway, but she did not. She walked into the house without so much as looking at me.
Mr. Di Silva engaged me in a renewed conversation about rose fertilizers, and I gratefully seized the chance to sulk over my troubles inwardly, letting him ramble on.
The washing machine in the laundry room started with a loud rumble that drifted down into the lawn, destroying the evening’s serenity. There was a loud clang of metal, a few dull thuds. How much noise do you have to make while washing a shirt? Half the hard work Mrs. Di Silva attributed to her was probably just the hustle and bustle that precedes a small chore that must be magnified in the eyes of the owner by these maids. I knew this from experience.
I glanced up at the laundry room window, in which the light was now on. She was standing up now, her back against the glass, probably after putting the shirt in the washing machine. She turned slightly to the window to look down into the garden and her eyes met mine, quite accidentally. When she saw that I had been watching her, she stepped away from the window, discomfited, but the small, secret smile on her lips did not escape my watchful, trained eyes.
She smiled. I turned away, but I was chortling inside. Piety, my foot. I leaned back into the chair. I should’ve known she would play at being unapproachable. I turned to the old man with a new vigour as I waited for her to exit the house, but the small display of emotion had probably perturbed her so much that she did not come out after that. I, however, did not care. I was crowing with triumphant delight inside.
It was around seven that I finally went to Mrs. Di Silva to bid her good-bye. She gathered her skirts about her, preparing to stand and walk me to the gate, but Champa materialised from the front door.
“I’ll close the gate behind him, ma’am.” She carefully avoided my gaze as she said the words.
“It’s all right, Mrs. Di Silva.” I gestured at the small woman to remain sitting and walked off briskly to the door, aware of Champa’s footsteps behind me.
I paused by the gate and she opened it for me. I went out looking, not looking back. I did not realise she had stepped out behind me until I heard her speak.
“You burnt my hand when you threw the tea on the shirt, Mr. Khizr.”
She had addressed me by my name (Indeed, without it, too) for the first time, and her voice sounded different from when she talked to her employers. It had a more human quality to it, a more feminine one.
I turned to find her big eyes boring into my face, which was a deep crimson much to my annoyance. She took a step forward so suddenly that I, taken very much aback, didn’t have time to step away.
“You burnt my hand, sir. Won’t you apologize?”
Her voice was soft, the words had an almost surreal quality to them, as if I was only hearing her think aloud. I breathed in and with the air came her soft, soapy scent, engulfing me in a pink and grey mist. Her eyes seemed to me two rapidly expanding oceans of chocolate in her face, the waves rising like hungry dogs to devour me.
We were too close. We were too alone. I had never thought of that as a problem with any other woman. I took a deep breath and stepped away from her, my heart hammering. I have no idea what is happening to me. I thought. I am not me today.
A part of my brain urged me to ask her to walk me down the street, at least, but it was completely ignored by all the other parts of my brain and my body. I turned around and jogged away, trying very hard not to look back. When I reached the corner of the street, I turned to look back at the chocolate nursemaid. She had disappeared. The gate was closed.
