Sindhu begins her day, every day, with a bath at four-thirty in the a.m. Because the state-sanctioned water doesn't kick in until later in the morning, and because sometimes it doesn't kick in at all, she draws the water from the well by hand. She fills a bucket, takes her bath, and then draws more water for all the household needs.
After that, she goes to work in the kitchen. For breakfast, she usually makes chapati and chickpea curry. If not chapati, then it is idlis with sambar. Sindhu likes to hum as she does her work. She hums and dances a little, knowing no one is watching her. And so she hums and dances in the dimly lit kitchen and thinks about how much she loves her son.
After her kitchen work, she irons and does her laundry. At half-past five, her son's lunch is ready, and all her household chores are done. Dressing him up and sending him to school is the responsibility of her mother-in-law, Mary. Sindhu prays that Mary doesn't oversleep today like she does every other day. Appu has been late to school every other day.
The first bus out of her tiny village is at 5:45. She kisses her sleeping son on his forehead, grabs her lunch bag, tucks a small purse into her petticoat, then leaves silently, locking the door behind her.
Sindhu works as a housemaid. On an average day, she would be in and out of at least three houses, her responsibilities broadly being cooking and cleaning. The pay from each house is meager, and collectively it is still meager, but she accepts it and never complains. When she gets home, it is almost seven in the evening and all her muscles are sore.
But today, she has a new job, well, the same job, but she only has to work in one house. For that, she will be paid five hundred rupees per day, six days a week. It was luck, and a recommendation from an old employer of hers that got her the job. But luck mainly. Sindhu was ecstatic when she heard the news. She lighted twenty candles at her church and thanked the Lord for his blessings.
Her employers are the Peters, both bank employees who have little time to do anything else. The missus does all the talking, Mr. Peter the nodding. The other occupants of the house are their two children, a boy, and a girl, who are in the sixth and eighth grade respectively. And then there is Ambrose chettan, Mr. Peter's sixty-year-old father, who may or may not have dementia. 'He's never gone to a doctor. So we don't know. But in all probability, he definitely has it,' said Mrs. Peter.
Sindhu has never been a full-time housemaid before. So she is a tad nervous on her first day. Her job details are the usual for the most part. Except for the little part Mrs. Peter shared with her the day she had her interview. Sindu has to keep an eye on Ambrose chettan.
'Make sure he stays in the house,' Mrs. Peter said that day. 'The dementia makes him forget himself, and he goes on these little adventures. More than once he has brought a bad name to our family. I don't want that happening again.'
Sindhu's working hours are from six-thirty to five, and she reaches the place at ten past six. Mrs. Peter opens the door for her. She is wearing a churidar, and a towel is wrapped around her head. She leads Sindhu to the kitchen and tells her to make tea for them before doing anything else. Sindhu wastes no time and begins her work. The first impression is the best impression, she thinks. I do it fast and I do it good.
The Peters are sitting on the sofa when Sindhu arrives with the tea. Mr. Peter takes four from the five cups on the tray and calls for his children. Mrs. Peter is reading the newspaper and does not pay any attention to her. 'What about Ambrose chettan's tea?' Sindhu asks.
'Take it to his room,' says Mrs. Peter without looking up from the paper. 'First floor, second room to the left.'
So Sindhu climbs the stairs and reaches the room. She knocks on the door gently and waits, but it does not open. From inside the room comes sounds of exertion, grunts, and huffs. She knocks again and says 'tea'. Some more grunting, and then an exhausted voice says, 'Leave it by the dresser.'
Sindhu pushes the door gently and it opens. A man is doing pull-ups from two iron rings bolted to the ceiling. A huge, bald, old man, in a white banyan and a blue lungi. His back is to her, so Sindhu takes the time to get a good look at him. She then leaves the tea on the dresser and walks out, closing the door behind her.
After that, Sindhu is back in the kitchen, making the meals for the day. For breakfast, she makes idlis and sambar. For lunch, rice and sambar with sardine fries and omelets. Sindhu gets the idlis to the dining table in time. She notes Ambrose chettan's absence again but does not say anything.
Back in the kitchen, she packs lunch kits for the four of them. A school van comes to pick up the children at twenty past eight, and Mr. and Mrs. Peter leaves at a quarter to nine. With no one around her, she hums a tune and continues her work at a slower pace, imagining this huge mansion as her own.
Ambrose walks down the stairs with the empty cup of tea. He is exhausted from his hour-long workout and wants to get some breakfast in him. Ambrose leaves the cup on the dining table and looks around for the new maid. Penny, his daughter-in-law, told him something about that before she left for work. It is a big house, so he searches for a while, following the sounds of a broom raking the dry sand somewhere. He looks out a window and finds the maid sweeping the grounds with a bent back. Ambrose frowns.
Ambrose frowns because he understands why his daughter-in-law picked this particular maid. He is sure there were other reasons, but the main reason, he guesses, is because she is unattractive. She does not have the curves he likes. And she does not have the color he likes. She looks like a stick wrapped in a saree, he muses. Even at this distance, he can see how hollow her cheeks are, and how her collarbone pokes out of her skin. She does not have much for tits and ass, and her skin is ink-black.
He takes a seat at the head of the dining table and waits for the maid. His stomach growls like he has a dog in his belly. Ambrose waits and waits, his feet tapping the marble floor restlessly. Ten minutes go by. Then twenty. He forgets about the maid, and breakfast, and thinks of other things. First, he becomes irate over the fact he took six fewer pull-ups today than he did yesterday. Ambrose likes exercising and staying in shape.
That is how I landed Shiny,
he thinks and his mood sours.
Ambrose stops, then steers his thoughts away from his late wife. He closes his eyes and does a breathing exercise. His grandson won a painting competition a few days back. A good memory. Happy... and fresh. His lips begin to curve upwards. His grandson came to show him the medal, and his painting. It was that of Ambrose lying on an old bed, bench-pressing weights. The brush made it a point to show that both the bed and the man are old.
Shiny would have loved that, he thinks and his mood sours again. Damn it.
When he opens his eyes, the maid is standing before him. She asks something. 'I'm sorry?' he says.
'I said, 'would you like your breakfast now, chetta?'' she says, her voice soft and servile. Even with her dark face, the dark circles under her eyes are prominent. 'I made some idlis.'
'Idlis would be nice.'
She smiles, a good smile, but a nervous one. Her two front teeth protruded, just a little.
Ambrose's fingers slice through the rice cakes like a knife. The maid stands beside him, fiddling with her fingers. He tears a piece, dips it into the hot sambar, and takes a bite. With the first chew, he nods at the maid. He likes it. With the second chew, a range of flavors burst in his mouth, sharp like a bee sting, and all in perfect harmony. He nods longer and says, 'Can't remember the last time I had such good idli and sambar.'
She smiles again, a good smile, and a real one.
***
Ambrose wakes to the sound of a fan whirring. He shakes his head and closes and opens his eyes. He is in the dining room and before him is a plate full of idlis. His right hand is covered in crumbs, and across from the dining table, a woman is sweeping the floors with a plastic broom, one arm resting on her bent back.
