The Housemaid

FICTION

by Sohana Manzoor

          It was afternoon when Monu got off the bus in a foul mood. She had hoped to arrive at her hometown by 11, and hence had started early in the morning. She only had ten days for her holiday and half of the first day was gone because of the horrendous traffic. On top of that, even though it was October, the weather was hot and humid, and she had been in a crowded bus for over seven hours. Still, she tried to cheer up by reminding herself that all her luggage was intact.
          Wrapping the end of her purple-green printed saree around her head and shoulders, Monu started looking for a rickshaw. She hoped she would not meet one of her extended family members. The last time she visited, she was upbraided by a cousin who saw her at the bus stand. She was neither young nor pretty anymore, but he was quite stern. “Cover your hair properly, sister,” he said. “This is Muktagachha. We understand you have to work in Dhaka because your husband left you. But don’t bring your Dhakaiya airs here.”
          Monu smarted with resentment, but she chose not to say anything. She tried not to antagonize the men of her hometown because of her daughter Jamila. Eight years ago, when she first left for Dhaka, she had to leave her toddler behind as nobody wanted a domestic help with extra baggage. Jamila lived with her aunt Tahera, Monu’s younger sister. If people started saying nasty things about Monu, finding a good husband for Jamila would be difficult. Nevertheless, she could not help wondering where this cousin was when she and her child were going hungry and wandering about in tattered clothes. Nobody said anything about covering up then! Now because she earned well by working as a maidservant in Dhaka, they came to judge her.
          She had just flagged a rickshaw when she heard a familiar voice: “Isn’t that our Monowara?”
          Monu turned to see who was calling her by that half-forgotten name. A lean man in a faded blue shirt and checked lungi stood by a tea-stall. A frayed gamchha hung loosely around his neck. He had greying hair at his temples and held a half-consumed bidi between the thumb and the forefinger of his left hand. Eyeing her bags, he nodded knowingly and said, “You’ve prospered!”
          Monu almost lost her balance and her face went pale.
          The man stared back at her, baffled by her expression.
          “Alam Chacha!” she shrieked. “Where did you come from? I thought you had croaked!” Alamgir gaped at his three-times-removed niece in great consternation. “What are you talking about, girl? Why would I have croaked?”
          By then, Monu had become hysterical. “But . . . Maloti Chachi took three thousand taka from my mistress saying that she didn’t have the money to give you a decent burial!”
          Alamgir looked shocked and confused. “What the hell?” he roared.
          “I swear this summer Maloti Chachi came to my mistress and said you had died leaving debts and no money . . .” Monu stopped suddenly, looking stricken. It had finally dawned on her that her aunt had swindled her mistress since her uncle was clearly very much alive.
          Hearing a chuckle, they turned and saw an elderly man on a nearby bench doubling over in mirth. He called out, “Alamgir Miah! What a wife you’ve got! Now she’s killed you off! Go see if she has another husband elsewhere!”
          Alamgir’s eyes turned blood-red. He flung his bidi on the ground, whipped off his gamchha, and tied it around his waist. “That hussy! How dare she! I’m going to kick her out of the house!” He strode off scowling. The tea-stall keeper called out, “Uncle, wait! Aren’t you going to pay for your tea?”
          The other man also got up. “You’ll get your money, don’t worry,” he laughed. “I’ll be off too. We’re in for some action today.”

          Monu got on the rickshaw feeling uneasy about her meeting with Alamgir. She had lost her wits when she saw her uncle, seemingly risen from the dead. She promised herself that she would never allow Maloti Chachi inside her mistress’s house again. As her rickshaw passed by the familiar sights of her birthplace, her unease slowly faded. Her thoughts turned to happy things—her daughter Jamila and her ten days’ respite from her busy life in Dhaka.
          As soon as she entered the house, Tahera sent her off to take a bath. “You’re covered in dust and grime, Bubu,” she said wrinkling her nose. “And kids, let her wash and eat first. You can look at the bags later.”
          Tahera and her family eagerly awaited Monu’s visits. She had a very generous mistress in Dhaka who allowed her to take home all manner of discarded items: old clothes, crockeries, bedsheets, curtains, and household trinkets. Tahera’s husband Jaglul ploughed his own land, but the harvest only provided the barest subsistence. They had other expenses, too; especially with growing children, things were quite difficult. But Monu’s arrival meant an abundance of food and gifts, and a few fun-filled days.
          After a late lunch, Monu opened her bags. Tahera had asked her to take a nap, but the eager children would not hear of it. And Monu, too, loved these moments. As Jamila and her two cousins smelled and caressed their new clothes with beaming faces, Tahera wiped away tears of joy. It was not every day that they had new clothes. Monu was lucky to have such a kind mistress.
          The trouble came after the Maghrib prayers. A shrill cry burst upon them: “Where’s that filthy wench from Dhaka? How much does she earn that she dares to insult us?” Jaglul had just returned from the mosque and he rushed out again to see what the matter was.
          Night comes early in rural areas, and in the faint autumn moonlight the skeletal woman in disheveled clothes and unkempt hair looked like a witch rising out of the earth. As soon Monu came out, she spewed forth a fresh burst of profanities. Monu stood erect and yelled back, “How dare you talk to me like that! You lie and cheat, and then you call me names!”
          Tahera and Jaglul had no clue as to what the ruckus was about. Maloti was screaming like a madwoman. By this time, a crowd had assembled to watch the spectacle.
          “So what if I lied?” she howled. “It’s not like your stingy mistress gave me a sack of gold! And have you forgotten who took you to Dhaka, you ungrateful bitch?” She wiped the spittle from her mouth and continued. “You have the gall to tell stories to my husband! Who the hell do you think you are? Have you found a man in Dhaka?”
          Monu’s face went white and she hissed, “How dare you!”
          While the crowd watched transfixed, an old woman finally intervened. “Just shut up, you two!” she said. “Maloti, go home. This time you’ve taken it too far. And Monu, mind your own business. Don’t cause trouble here.”
          Monu said, “I don’t bother anybody. Why did she go to Dhaka and lie to my mistress? And now when the truth has come out, how is it my fault?”
          Tahera dragged Monu inside while some others took Maloti away.

          Later that evening, Tahera spread out dinner on a rush mat on the floor. She had arranged quite a feast with fish, mashed eggplant, curried pumpkin, and rice. She promised the children that she would cook chicken the next day.
          Jaglul rubbed his hands as he took in the good food. Then he said, “What a woman that Maloti Chachi is! She got people to give her money by faking her husband’s death! The whole town must have heard about it by now.”
          Monu said warily, “I once saw a fellow playing dead and a child crying over him on a street in Dhaka. Then someone accidentally dropped a lighted bidi on the corpse and the supposedly dead man sprang up and bolted from the place. But I never thought our Maloti Chachi could pull a stunt like that.”
          Putting a large piece of fried fish on her husband’s plate and another on her sister’s, Tahera said, “Well, you can’t blame her altogether. Alam Chacha is a lazy bum. They have many mouths to feed and it all falls on Chachi. Her earning used to come from supplying maidservants to different houses in the city. She’s the one who took Monu bu to Dhaka, remember? But lately, things have been bad. The young girls are more interested in joining garment factories because they pay more.” She turned to Monu and said, “I wish you had not said anything, Monu bu. If Alam Chacha divorces her, people will blame you.”
          Jaglul shook his head and said, “I doubt it. Alam Chacha is not a fool. His wife even feeds him.”
          At night, Monu could not sleep. Tahera’s words had brought back painful memories. Even when Jamila’s father was around, they often went hungry. Eventually he left Monu to marry another woman because of the dowry her family had promised him. He sold his homestead in Muktagachha and went to live in his new in-laws’ village. Monu became homeless and put up a small shanty near her brother’s house. She used to collect twigs for firewood and sell them in the bazaar. Sometimes she stole fruit from neighbouring orchards and caught fish at night from Rahim Miah’s pond. She could still recall the dizzy feeling around noon when there was nothing to eat. Putting a pot of water on the clay stove, she would console Jamila that food would be ready soon. Tahera would sometimes give her rice, but her mother-in-law was still alive and she did not dare to help her sister too often.
          As Monu drifted off to sleep, she recalled her scumbag of a brother who now lay half-paralyzed. After their father’s death, he had cheated his sisters out of their father’s property. A destitute Monu had once approached him for help. He had closed the door on her face sneering, “I will have no beggar for a sister.”

          The next morning, Monu awoke with a heavy heart. She asked Tahera about Maloti and her family.
          Tahera was deftly mending the old clothes Monu had brought from her mistress in Dhaka. “Maloti Chachi? She collects firewood and sells it at the bazaar. She also keeps ducks and chickens to bring in some money. Her husband doesn’t do anything—he’s useless.”
          “What about their children?”
          “Their sons are just like their father—the elder one ran away with his mother’s savings several months ago. I guess that’s why she went to Dhaka to hustle up some cash. The elder daughter also lives with them, along with her child, as her husband left her. Paru, the younger daughter, does the cooking and looks after the house. Why do you ask?”
          Monu did not reply. It all sounded very familiar. Once upon a time, all she wanted was a husband, a small thatched hut, a couple of kids, and three square meals a day. Was that too much to ask?
          Monu decided to visit Maloti Chachi. She plucked a gourd, a few eggplants, and a pumpkin from her sister’s kitchen garden. Tahera added some rice, dried fish, and even a small bottle of soybean oil and some spices. Putting them in a sack, Monu took out a saree of her own. Even though it had been dark the evening before, she had not failed to notice Maloti’s threadbare saree.
          When she reached Alamgir and Maloti’s house, a young girl of fifteen or sixteen came out who Monu recognized as Paru.
          “Ma is not at home,” she sniffed.
          “When will she return?” Monu asked.
          “Abba got so angry that he did not come home last night. We have no food, so Ma went out to see if she could get some.”
          “I’ll wait for her then.” She handed the bag of rice and vegetables to Paru whose eyes widened.
          “Go and cook these, Paru. Where’s your sister?”
          “She works at Saleha Khala’s house these days. At least she’ll have something to eat there, you know.”
          Paru took the bag of goodies to the kitchen area on the other side of the yard. Monu looked around and thought again of her old life in Muktagachha. Maloti Chachi was much better off in those days and had offered her a way out of this muck of hunger and poverty. But now she herself was drowning in it. Monu sat near the clay stove as Paru started cooking—nothing fancy, just rice and eggplant curry with a little dried fish.
          “If things are so bad here, why don’t you all come to Dhaka?” asked Monu.
          Paru shook her head. “Abba doesn’t want to. City people and their ways are evil, he says. Then no decent man will agree to marry me.” Paru hesitated and then said, “You know how it is . . .”
          Monu nodded unmindfully. She wondered how long Alamgir Chacha and Maloti Chachi would be able to continue like this. In the end, hunger is the deciding factor, not what other people think.
          At length, a tired Maloti entered the house with a bundle of firewood and a small plastic bag. She was muttering, “Those stingy minxes—I was only able to dig out some sweet potatoes . . .” She stopped abruptly when she saw Monu, and her nostrils flared.
          Before her mother could launch another attack, Paru uttered the magic words, “Look Ma, Monu bu has brought rice. Also, vegetables and dried fish. Lunch is almost ready. Will you eat now?”
          Monu watched the famished woman slurping up the rice with eggplant curry. She bit into a green chili and gave her guest a cursory look. Whatever anger or resentment she harboured had dissipated in the face of a more pressing need. Paru was eating heartily, too, and feeding her little nephew. Monu took a few mouthfuls; she was not very hungry.
          After lunch, she held out the saree to Maloti. “Chachi, I brought this for you,” she said. “It’s not brand new, but I’ve only worn it a couple of times.” Since her aunt showed no interest, Monu placed it in front of her. Maloti looked away and said dryly, “I do have good sarees, you know, but I’ve put them away for Paru.”
          Monu nodded along. “Of course. You’ve got to get her married, right? But please wear this. And next time, I’ll bring you a new one.”
          The older woman softened and took the saree from Monu as a queen might from a courtier. She might be poorer than her visitor, and have no choice but to accept charity, but at least she lived in her own house with her husband and children. Monu might be prosperous now, but everyone remembered how and why she had to leave her hometown to work as a maid in the city.

          On her way back to her sister’s house, Monu took a different path—a less frequented one. She turned this way and that and finally stood in front of an old dilapidated cottage obscured by overgrown bushes and tall grass. It was the house where she used to live with her husband. The people who had purchased the place had also left and now it lay in ruins.
          When she first left Muktagachha, Monu had only one dream—to secure some land and a house for herself, and someday have Jamila married to a suitable boy. Lately, however, she was finally catching up with reality. Anytime there was a quarrel or dispute, people would insinuate that she was a maidservant in the city and might as well be involved in illicit relationships. Only families in dire financial straits would agree to take Jamila as a daughter-in-law and Monu would have to pay a large dowry. Even then it would not be enough; Jamila would always be referred to as a “housemaid’s daughter.”
          A feeling of hopelessness and fatigue took over Monu and she sat down on a pile of rubble by the shambles of her former home. The closed door of the past had burst open and Monu felt overwhelmed. Getting married, giving birth to Jamila, a few happy years as a family—it all came back to her. She realized finally that Muktagachha was no more her home. She had lost her home many years ago.
          Men from distant villages on their way back from the market glanced curiously at the hapless woman sobbing by a deserted country road. If anyone had asked what was wrong, she could not have answered. The sun continued its westward journey as did the villagers toward their homes.