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 knuckles¹ 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 frayed² jewelry³

    hawked⁴ 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

    tighten⁵， her knuckled⁶ skull⁷.

    I had to look at her.  It had to wound me.

    Listen， said my mother. Yes mother， I listened， crouched⁸ 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.

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