An ode to Domestic help in India
It was the hundredth time she was thinking of Jharna. A thousand miles away, she remembered the filthy fights she had had with her. And what of those terrible nights when she went on an empty stomach to show her protest and of all the late nights they spent together watching Ekta K serials, waiting up for her husband. She missed her. Awfully. She was willing to do anything to see her again. The separation was almost suffocating. She thought of her day and night. Nights mostly. She was willing to forgive her for staining her favourite mauve shirt. She was willing to discount all the back biting, silliness and frivolity. She promised herself not to fight with her that bad, if ever they met, that is.
Sighing, she looked at her hands- cracked nails and peeling skin.
Quickly she typed – ‘passport office’, in her to-do list.
(In the stairwell in a residential building)
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