by Reetika Vazirani
New Delhi， 1967
1. We kept war in the kitchen.
A set of ten bone china plates， now eight.
As if a perfumed guest stole her riches . . . The next day she wanted to leave at noon.
I said， be back by four， I'm paying you. She sat by the door， she put out her hand，her knuckles knocked against mine，hard deliberate knuckles. I gave her cash.
Off to watch movies， off to smoke ganja.
2. She came back late and high as if my fear asked for it.
I called her junglee. Everything went off late —— dinner， the children getting into bed; but the guests understood： they had servants too. She stuck diaper pins in my children.
I cursed her openly. Who shouted? Or I cursed her silently and went my way.
She stole bangles my husband's mother bought， bangles a hundred years old.
But she wore frayed jewelry hawked on the street. She was like a rock that nicked furniture in corners you'd think only a rat could go.
3. Why didn't I dismiss her?
I don't know.
She got old as I got old.
I could see her sharp shoulder bones
tighten， her knuckled skull.
I had to look at her.
It had to wound me.
Listen， said my mother. Yes mother， I listened， crouched in my head.
Looking over the flowered verandah she said：
Who are you to think you are beautiful? What have you got to show? Go sit on your rag.
All my life I tended to looks，they betrayed me. I bore you. I am wretched. Be my mother. Be my maid.
