A four and a half
foot wall separated us. At that wall, we gossiped, exchanged sweets and the
kids on either side jumped over to pick up a ball.
Every morning, before
work, the man of the house went to the big temple in the city. He moonlighted
as a restorer and real-estate agent of old heritage homes. There was some talk
of him having a woman in one of those places. His wife was from a rich family.
She was a great cook, a strict mother and a capable homemaker. The eldest kid was
a very serious boy, bad in studies, deeply in love with a rich cousin and her
father’s business. The daughter used to practise classical singing. That hour
was a bad one for us. There was a younger son, a six year old who used to bawl
a lot and walk around in nothing but his underwear. There was a servant girl,
of the same age. She used to wake up at five and worked the whole day; she swept
and wiped, inside and outside; washed the clothes and the utensils. She seemed
healthy. She got decent meals and a place to sleep, on the floor in the
storeroom near the kitchen, ‘boarding and lodging’ that was the term for it.
She got the kids’ old clothes too. She was from their village, they told us;
she would have faced abuse and worse, they said. The girl had a shy smile. She
wore a red ribbon which somehow contrasted well with her large dark eyes. When
she was ten, she was sent away to her village. She had come of age, they told
us; too many men in the house, they said.
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