I hired a maid from a tiny village in India through an agency, and liked her instantly. She didn’t ask questions; she showed me her Aadhar card—which was probably her grandmother’s, judging by the picture and age—and then dove into the job like a fish in water. Surprisingly so. In India, people rarely use vacuum cleaners, steamers, or marble polishers, so it was refreshing to find someone eager to learn.
I left her on the job as I didn’t want her to feel hounded. But when I went up an hour later to check on her, she was curled up like a baby, fast asleep, snoring gently. I didn’t wake her—poor girl, she probably works too hard – I thought. My husband felt the same way. After a while, she was vacuuming the carpets with renewed energy, as though she wanted to eliminate every dust particle. The appliance practically groaned.
Then she attacked the marble from a standing position, her back hunched towards the ground, moving backwards. Fearing she might slide down the steps along with the hand-polishing machine, I suggested she sit comfortably and work. But she smiled and said not to worry. She had handled it all before.
In the first few weeks, she arrived on time, but gradually she began to slack off until she started taking leave.
“I lost my mom,” she said.
I looked at her, somewhat puzzled.
“But you told me during the interview that your mom passed away?”
“That was my mom. This is my stepmom.”
“Oh!”
Another time, she showed me her head. She’d fallen, she said, while fetching water for her family. My heart stirred. Perhaps her spouse had beaten her and she wouldn’t admit it.
On another occasion, she asked if I knew a hostel where she and her daughter could stay. She said she didn’t trust her husband and didn’t’ want to leave the children alone with him. By then I had learned that her statements required interpretation.
After a while, she stopped coming completely. No telephone call. Nothing. And the number she’d given was no longer in service. A month went by. I didn’t hire another maid because I wasn’t sure if this one would suddenly return.
She did.
She burst into tears. I asked her what had happened. Between sobs, she said her husband had died.
“How? When?”
She wiped her eyes and described in a trembling voice how her husband had gasped for breath, how she had clung to him, calling his name again and again, how his body had jerked, then gone rigid, how his hands had turned cold in hers.
I felt her pain. I comforted her. I advised her that from then on, she had to be the man of the house and had to live for the children. I imagined this poor girl having to look after her son and daughter on her own without a spouse. I decided to help her in any way I could.
We increased her salary. Gave her flexible timings. She could take paid leave whenever she wanted.
One day, my mobile rang. It was her daughter, asking to speak to her mother. The maid was busy vacuuming, so I asked the child how she was.
“I’m very fine, thank you,” she said in Tamil.
I found it odd, but then children react differently to loss, I thought.
“What can I do for you?”
“Tell Amma that Appa is troubling us again. Tell her to come home quickly.”
I froze. Had she just said her dad was troubling them again?
“Can you repeat the message?” I asked, thinking I’d misunderstood.
“Daddy is troubling like anything. Fully drunk.”
“Hold the line, I’ll inform your mummy.” I turned and called into the house, “Sarasvathi, your daughter is on the line.”
My maid nearly dropped the vacuum cleaner and scurried to my side, stretching out her hand for the phone. “Why is she calling simply? I told her not to call here.”
“Your dead husband,” I said angrily, “has come alive and is troubling them.”
She choked back a startled gasp. I could see her trying to think of a way out of that delicate situation. “No, Madam. That man is not my husband… he is like a husband.”
I raised my hand. “Please, no more.”
I was furious with myself for believing her. But how was I to guess she would lie to this extent? And then I remembered how she had also brought her dead mother to life and turned her into a stepmother.
Finally, she said indifferently, “What does it matter whether my good-for-nothing husband is alive or dead? He’s such a waste.”
Well, maybe—but surely she didn’t have to kill him off so luridly for that.
Cécilie Rischmann is an author and linguist whose work spans fiction and creative nonfiction, often drawing on cross-cultural experiences and the quiet absurdities of everyday life. Her writing has appeared in Kitaab, Joaq-que Literary Journal, The Indian Periodical, and StoryMirror. Her first screenplay was nominated at the Jaipur International Film Festival.
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