SAHIB’S MAID

N Sharma was a self-retired government officer. A just above fifty by age and extraordinarily calculative, he held a remarkable position in B—a small village bazaar surrounded by ordinary peasants. Every little social event deemed inadequate without his perceptible attendance: no bride had a good house without his blessings; no business was profitable without his scrutiny; no communal ritual was auspicious without his inauguration.

Sharmaji’s house was situated at the western edge of the town adjoining fifty bigha lands he owned by birth. But unlike none, the house was compounded by a cemented wall demarcating the two properties. The sahib justified this by stating that he wanted to keep his private life away from work.

The two-storied house was entirely made of saal wood and even possessed a latrine twenty steps further north—a rare facility amongst the locales. The Sharmas lived in the upper house whereas the lower rooms worked as kitchen, grain stores and servants’ quarters. On the other side of the house his wife had begun to garden a collection of flowers: sunflowers, gendas, and parijats were the most flamboyant. There was also a considerable space in front for the two children to play.

Sharmaji strongly believed he ought to possess only one servant for his household tasks although he was never satisfied by the amount of workers in the field. Now, this was always a girl and the one who was chosen would be highly anticipated amongst villagers. Everyone was aware that once a girl entered that house, she had the best groom in village. The sahib would raise the girl to be chivalrous and hand a large dowry when time for wedding off her seem inevitable. Wives insisted their husbands to visit sahib for their eligible daughters. And why would not they? Reputation of the girl’s family would heighten too, making it profitable for the other less fortunate siblings.

‘Why don’t you go and see the sahib?’ Mohan’s wife asked softly. ‘The village well was swarming with gossips that Usha is going to be married next month. He probably needs a new maid. Our Aarati is already big for handling household affairs. She is also a good cook.’

‘But how can I raise the matter myself?’ Mohan shrugged. This was another of his wife’s complicated questions that made him mindless.
‘Maybe he will do it himself. He is fond of you. Just go and meet him first’, Ramita confided.

‘Okay, I will visit him but don’t expect me to speak anything about my daughter first. If he doesn’t begin, nothing will come out of my mouth.’
Muttering he got up and picked a plain green shirt from a pile of clothes that lay hung desolate in a jute rope. The rope ran across the back window and the green apparel was bought three months ago for Dashain. Now most of its fresh greenness had faded away making it look like an autumn leave.

As he was preparing to leave, Ramita interrupted, ‘Take this too. The children will love them. And don’t be late.’

Mohan swiftly strode towards the village road without looking back. His wife stood beside the wooden falaicha for a moment and vanished into the darkness of the room.

While walking on dusty village road, Mohan began wondering how he ought to begin the conversation. Would it be courteous to just open the issue upfront? Or use subtle ways as Krishna usually does, so that the stick does not break and the snake is killed altogether? How glad he would be if his Aarati gets selected. Her future would be secure; she would learn noble manners. Playing with her neighbors makes her filthy and disgraceful everyday. Besides, gaining a relation with the sahib would ascend his stature in the neighborhood.

Children were playing in the middle of the road: throwing pebbles, kicking dusts and breaking twigs. As he walked, Mohan became so absorbed into his thoughts that he greeted bystanders and pedestrians unconsciously. Only did he lose this hypnotism by a constant call of his name behind: ‘Mohanji! Oye Mohanji!’
He turned back and saw Krishna hurrying toward him.

Krishna was a mid-aged peasant who had a peculiar habit of taking out his tongue and flapping it as he got tuned into his bantering. He spoke loudly if the conversation was based around his good deeds—his one-time visit to Kathmandu was never amiss. But if it turned to other issues, apart from that of sahib’s, he stayed quiet and groaned. Everyone in the village was accustomed to Krishna’s abilities; it was just that no one was better than him.

Having to confront Krishna, Mohan halted and began making ideas.
‘Where are you heading?’ asked his visitor panting.
‘To meet sahib for some matters’, Mohan replied blindly.
‘Well, do you know?’ Krishna widened his eyes and shook his head.
What?’
‘The sahib’s maid is to be married next month.’
‘So?’ Mohan questioned immediately and looked down at a pebble he wanted to kick.
‘He will probably want a new maid. I am thinking of talking for my elder daughter Sabitri.’
‘Oh… when do you plan to meet him then?’
‘Tomorrow perhaps’
‘How will you initiate the matter then?’ Mohan enquired. He was eager how a witty fellow like Krishna would handle it.
‘I will discuss it with my family first’, the intruder smiled.

The two parted in a chowk. The sun had begun to glow orange and enlarge its circumference. A gentle wind blew below the feet cooling off heat the slippers had gathered. Mohan went straight to a paan shop. A rectangular board imprinting a glossy maiden and large letters of BIRENDAR’S ASLI PAAN hung above the tin roof.

Just before reaching the shop, he shouted,
‘Oye Birendar! Make one for me—the usual.’
‘No, make two this time and pack them.’
‘A Pilot cigarette too!’ he added instantly.

The paanwaala looked at him with welcoming eyes and unleashed his reddened lips,
‘So Mohanji, where are you heading?’ He began smearing masalas over the leaves.
Mohan lit his cigarette and put the two paans inside his upper pocket. ‘I have some matters with the sahib’, he uttered and turned east.