Kiwi and Memories
As I stepped into Maili didi’s small kitchen, she immediately busied herself making a cup of coffee. She took out the shiniest cup from the shelf to pour the hot drink. And together, we sat next to each other sipping our coffee. It had been a year since I met Maili didi. She had a shawl wrapped around her, and her cap, which could also be used to cover her neck, towered above her head, but she didn’t mind. She just kept expressing the joy of seeing me. “You are finally in my house. I am just so happy to see you,” she said.
Maili didi used to work at my house; she used to help my mother wash clothes. But about five years ago, she left our work. But time and again, she visited us at our home just to talk about life. The last time she was at our home, she talked about her daughter getting ready to marry a guy from Bihar. And she had brought me chocolates like I was still a two-year-old. Maili didi loved to buy me chocolates; she used to offer me candies and chocolates every birthday. And I used to unwrap it and gobble it up in front of her.
When she started working with us, I was just a child; and her daughter was just a year younger than me. I used to play with her, and Maili didi used to adore me like I was her daughter. Now, at 51, Maili didi, who used to carry a whole wardrobe by herself easily, seems to have lost her strength. Like my mother, her knees are giving out. Two years ago, she was also diagnosed with thyroid disease. And she has been slowing down with her work.
Maili didi started washing people’s clothes at the age of 16; it was her bajai who introduced her to different houses to wash clothes. At first, she just tagged along with her grandmother to learn the techniques of washing clothes; in her village, they used to wash clothes in the river, but it was strange how urban people were so particular about how much detergent should be used and how many times clothes should be rinsed. But as she got better at it, she took over her grandmother’s work, who was looking to retire as she was getting old. Every Saturday, when she came by our house, my mother sat beside her, rubbing soap on clothes and endlessly talking about things with her.
My mother appreciated her strength; she could really get the grease out of clothes, she used to tell me. Maili didi had a strong sense of duty. She would stick around if she came in late, always doing the hard work, as if she understood how important cleanliness was to people.
But today, she seemed restless as I had arrived right when she was waiting for another guest. Her Kaka’s son, who flew in from Dubai was supposed to arrive in the afternoon, but he still had not shown up. And she was worried that she wouldn’t be able to give me time. When he arrived, she quickly welcomed him with tika and busied herself in the kitchen again, reheating the meat curry and cracking an egg into the pan. I sat awkwardly beside the new guest, and she introduced me to him like I was her special guest instead. The guy, too, wasn’t bothered about my presence, and instead, he headed out to buy alcohol to drink with Dawa dai, Maili didi’s husband.
She served me a hearty plate of buff curry with beaten rice, mushrooms, and poached egg and told me to eat without feeling shy. I was not shy, but I felt like I was burdening her by again tying her to kitchen duties. I just wanted to talk about things, but here she was, tending to guests while her husband just hovered around us as though he was finding reasons to pick a fight about. Perhaps I would not have sensed that intention if I had not known about Dawa dai’s tantrum after drinking in the evening. And the Kaka’s son had just gone out to fetch drinks for them. I was beginning to worry about the whole situation; I probably shouldn’t have asked her questions where I could put her into trouble. So, I kept postponing my interview questions about labour.
When the two men left, Maili didi assured me it was okay to ask me questions. I, however, was still uncertain. The puja plate was placed right on the table, next to my plate, and I thought of how, at home, that would be an offence, as puja utensils are separated from meal plates. But I also looked around and thought that only some have the luxury of space. I felt uncomfortable about my privilege and wondered if I was making Maili didi uncomfortable. As since I came in, she has been offering me things.
Although Maili didi has a partner, she has often complained about his unreliability. When I asked her if it was a love marriage, she said she had been witched (mohani lagayeko). “I keep thinking why I found a husband like him. Because I ran away with him, I could not even return to my parents. And now I am just old to get rid of him,” she says.
Dawa dai was a supportive husband, but he was not present for his children. Instead, after her daughter was born, Maili didi took it upon herself to earn money to survive and have at least a meal for the night. “One time, when I was working for the landlord, I left Kali inside the shuttle we were living in. But she had scattered all the rice and even dirtied the room. I cried so much because it was good rice–grains that could have lasted us a week,” she says, laughing.
Looking at my plate, Maili didi asked if I wanted another helping, but as I heard the footsteps of her husband coming up, I told her I wanted to know more about her but not here. “Maybe we should grab a tea in the park; next time, it will be my treat,” I said. And she didn’t insist much anymore. She scurried for plates to fix snacks for her husband and her nephew. And the husband, who was interested in listening to our conversation a little while ago, was no longer in that mood. He was just thinking of his shots. When the nephew came inside with two bottles of alcohol, Maili didi had taken out a bottle of alcohol to hide it. But Dawa dai had immediately noticed the missing bottle, so when he showed up in the room, he kept asking Maili didi to get the bottle she had hidden.
After he left, she gestured for me not to overthink. “He is always like that.” Riding back home, I kept thinking of Maili didi’s life. When she used to work for us, Dawa dai used to persistently call her to scold her. Her phone would ring every minute, like he was just redialing her number at the other end. Maili didi used to tell us to ignore him, just like she did most of the time when dealing with more important things in life.
The kiwi she hurriedly shoved inside my bag as I left her felt heavy. To be loved by someone who should be loved weighs on me. Outside her house, it was cold, and I sighed, like I had been holding my breath.
All names have been changed to protect anonymity.
