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He is already turning away. ‘No problem.
Well, I should head back.'

‘Head back where?'

He grins. ‘Back to the demonstration. Can't
let those police goondas win, no? Well, see you around.'

The next day I read in the
Indian Express
that at least half of the students had re-gathered after the initial
lathi-charge. My throat clenches with pride.

I decide not to tell Jesse about my presence at
the march, knowing that she is forever torn between her own growing
political militancy and her older-sister desire to protect me from
all harm.

But the image of the students, bruised, beaten,
scared, returning to the place of their victimization, stays with me
long after the story fades from the newspaper headlines.

K
AMALA HAS BEEN WORKING AS A domestic
servant in our home since I was eleven. She herself is a woman of
indeterm-inate age. Her tight, fleshless face, her scanty hair, her
tobacco-destroyed teeth, make it hard to guess how old she is. Her
face reminds me of a boulder—it is yellow-brown, smooth and
polished as if time and circumstance have removed every un-necessary
ounce of flesh. And like an archaeologist, I have excavated Kamala
bit by bit, starting with her name. When she came to work for us, she
was known by the generic name of Ganga, the name that we confer on
every servant who works for us. For years we called her Ganga until
one day I asked her the revolutionary question: ‘What's
your real name?'

Kamala, she replied and a whole universe opened up
before my eyes—a human being with a name and suddenly there
were other trails to follow—family, marital status, children,
where she lived, where she disappeared to when she left us in the
evening…and then, likes, dislikes, preferences, allergies,
past illnesses, what made her laugh…

It is the nature of revolutions that one change
follows another and soon, another cataclysmic event: I hugged Kamala.
First, an arm around the shoulder, then, a quick, sideways hug,
pulling her closer toward me and then, finally, a full, frontal hug,
the same way I would hug Mehroo or one of my friends at school.
Physical space, not to be violated because of the invisible walls of
class, religion, tribe, language, education, all the things that
divided us, that

physical space suddenly, effortlessly, trampled
over—and nothing happened. The heavens didn't open up,
the Gods didn't send their lightning bolts of wrath. Just…the
adults raising their eyebrows and looking silently at each other for
guidance. Just…Kamala giving a short, embarrassed laugh if I
hugged her in front of one of the adults and then quickly moving out
of my embrace. Just…the sharp, pungent smell of Kamala's
hard-working sweat, unfamiliar, new. But other than that, nothing.

And so I excavate Kamala, bit by bit, coax her out
of the mask of silence she usually assumes in front of the adults
(unless she is angry and then she rattles off indignant words like
the rat-a-tat of a machine gun, her flat chest heaving), make her
laugh, have her tell me stories, have her describe her nieces and
nephews to me. Filling in the blanks, drawing a picture of this
mystery woman who shows up at our house at seven a.m. each morning
and then disappears into the evening shadows until the following day.

Most days, it is like moving mountains because the
very presence of the adults makes her freeze, withdraw into silence.

When they are around, her movements are stiff, her
speech stilted and self-conscious. Even while she is talking to me, I
notice her looking at them out of the corner of her eye. But when we
are at home alone, her face gets animated when she talks, her light
brown eyes grow round and wide, her hands gesturing wildly. But along
the way to getting her to trust me, there are many missteps on my
part. In the beginning, I take my lunch plate and set it beside hers
on the floor, my silent, ineffectual protest against a social system
that allows Kamala to cook our food but not sit at the dining table
with us while we eat it. Roshan giggles, dad is torn between thinking
it's a silly gesture and wanting me to stop, mum is annoyed and
Kamala is embarrassed—and pissed. She scolds me, making sure
the adults understand she wants no part of this.

Finally, after several days of sitting on my
haunches like she does and eating my food, I give up.

My next mission is to get Kamala to sit at the
dining table with me though even I know better than to try this in
the presence of the adults. But when we are alone, I refuse to eat my
lunch until she comes and joins me at the table and there is much
eye-rolling and head-shaking but finally she does. But she looks so
damn uncomfortable sitting on the brown chair, that there is no
pleasure in this for either her or me. If I don't insist on it,
she automatically squats on the floor in front of me when we are
talking. Until…

Until that glorious day the summer that I am
fifteen. I am in the living room playing
Let It Be
on the
stereo and Kamala comes sailing into the room and asks me to change
the music, to stop playing this record in a language she doesn't
understand, to instead play the record I had brought home two days
earlier. It is an old fishermen's folk song, sung in Marathi,
which is Kamala's language and she knows the song and now she
is demanding that I play it. And I am leaping off the couch before
she can even finish her request, my heart singing at the maternal,
authoritative manner in which Kamala is ordering me about. Success, I
think, at last. And it gets even better: she comes and sits on the
couch next to me and we listen to the record in silence. She looks
straight ahead and her face is ex-pressionless. If she knows the
words of this song she doesn't let on. I have no idea what
she's thinking but I don't care. I am enjoying sitting on
the couch with this woman I have come to love and respect so much,
this quiet, hard-working, decent, dignified woman who, I think,
deserves to inherit the earth. I wonder about a system that considers
this woman ignorant and illiterate when she is clearly wise; that
allows her to work for people who do not even call her by her own
name. Usually, these thoughts

would depress and anger me but today is a day of
celebration.

Even as I realize that this brief moment of
spontaneity will not change anything, I still feel a rush of hope, a
tantalizing glimpse of possibility. I allow myself to romanticize and
sentimentalize the moment even while I realize that this
sentimentality is something I can afford but Kamala can't. And
so I savour this unguarded sweetness between us, even after the
doorbell rings and Kamala jumps guiltily off the couch and hurries to
the door to let the others in.

Two days after this incident she comes to me and
asks in an off-hand way whether I'd like to go with her to her
nephew's engagement party. Before I can express my pleasure at
the invitation she begins to recite all the reasons why I probably
shouldn't go: We would have to leave very early in the morning
and change two buses, her nephew lives in an old, rickety building
with a common bathroom and I probably have to study for my exams
anyway. ‘Kamala,' I say. ‘I really, really want to
go. I've always wanted to meet your family, especially your
nephew. I know he's your favourite.'

So Kamala broaches the subject to Mehroo, who, she
knows, is in charge of these decisions. And to my surprise, Mehroo
says yes.

Kamala breaks into a wide, surprised grin when she
comes to pick me up on that Saturday. I look clumsy in my a green and
gold cotton sari and the sight of me in clothes other than my usual
shirt and jeans makes her laugh. She smiles even more broadly as we
walk toward the bus-stop and I awkwardly navigate the folds of the
sari and try to make sure I don't trip.

‘Baby, why did you bother with all this?'
she asks. But I can tell that she is happy I made the effort.

It is a wonderful day. Kamala's family is
warm, welcoming and friendly toward me. For the first hour or two
they fawn over me, give me a chair to sit on while the rest of them
sit on mattresses on the floor but after a while I tell them that
this attention is making me uncomfortable and to my great surprise,
they get it and stop their fussing. Still, I can tell that Kamala is
keeping a protective eye on me, pulling me away when one of the
neighbourhood boys gives me an in-solent, knowing smile and escorting
me to the community bathroom that's down the hall from her
nephew's apartment, muttering all the way about the dirty
habits of some of the people who live in this chawl. But she is also
glad to be among family she doesn't see too often and I see a
side of her I've never seen before. The controlled, silent
woman who moves like a ghost through our house, has disappeared. In
her place is a colourful, boisterous woman with a sharp tongue and a
hearty laugh. I thrill each time Kamala laughs, knowing it may be
years before I ever see her this free again. Kamala's nieces
and nephews call her ‘Kaku,' and they all laugh when I
start calling her by that name.

‘Better not call me Kaku at home,' she
says on the way back.

‘What will your mummy-daddy think, if you
call me aunt?'

‘I don't care,' I say. ‘You
are
my aunt.'

And so the woman who was once Ganga and later
became Kamala, now becomes Kaku. And I suppose it is a good thing,
this progression from the anonymous to the familial but I can't
help but know that even this power to name, is a sign of privilege.
What does it mean that a fifteen-year-old teenager has the power to
give a woman at least three times her age her name back? And if a
name can be given, can it also be taken away?

And then there's this: After that time on
the couch, after the adults came back home and Kaku jumped off the
couch to answer the door, she went back to resume her kitchen duties.

And I, I stayed in the living room, listening to
the Marathi folk song one more time. Then, when the song ended, I
lifted the stylus and changed the record.

And
Let It Be
played through the house once
again.

B
ABU IS DEAD.

The man who has been a second father to me all my
life, who saw me seconds after I was born, who has loved me as
proudly and steadfastly as he did his own daughter, is dead—suddenly,
shockingly, at the age of fifty-four.

The doorbell rings at seven p.m. The whole family
is at the dinner table except for my aunt Freny, who is spending the
night by her husband's side at the hospital. We have come home
from the hospital a few hours earlier, relieved to find Babu in such
good spirits a day after his kidney stone surgery.

Now, we are almost done with dinner when the
doorbell rings.

Mehroo looks startled as she pushes back her chair
to answer the door. We are not expecting any more visitors tonight.

From the dining room, I hear Sam uncle's
voice. He is out of breath and talking fast, which makes his voice
sound even more high-pitched than always. ‘Mehroo, come quick,'
he says.

‘Pesi is not doing well. I just went to the
hospital to see him for a few minutes and Freny sent me to fetch all
of you. Dr Sethna is on his way in also.'

Dad is already on his feet and toward the door. My
mom, too, rushes out of the room, leaving me and my cousin Roshan all
alone in the suddenly empty room. I stare at Roshan, not knowing what
to say and she stares back, her nose and eyes getting red. Then, she
gets up and I hear the flip-flop of her rubber slippers on the floor
of the hallway. I gaze at all the abandoned dinner plates on the
table and look down at mine. It is almost empty—just a few more
morsels to go. And then it happens: A quiet, cold voice says to me,

‘Finish your dinner. You will need all your
strength to run around if Babu is sick.' So I continue eating,
the only one in my family to do so. I eat fast and guiltily, afraid
that someone will enter the room and catch me in the act. It is the
first time I have encountered the hidden ruthlessness in myself, that
cold-eyed practicality that will surface whenever I face a situation
of crisis. This is a side of myself I have not yet experienced and I
feel like a mercenary, a soldier of fortune, as I gulp the food down.

The potential seriousness of the situation hits me
as I notice how furiously my dad drives us to the hospital. Dr Sethna
has reached the hospital before we get there and is in the room
examining Babu. We wait outside the room. Freny is in the room with
Babu so we have no idea what is going on. Finally, Mehroo grabs one
of the nurses coming out of the room but the woman only says, ‘Doctor
should be out soon. Then you can ask him everything.'

Finally, Dr Sethna steps out. He is a handsome man
in his fifties with greying temples and a calm manner honed from
years of serving in the army. He had removed my appendix six months
earlier and now he smiles at me and murmurs, ‘Hi, girlie.'

Without waiting for me to respond, he turns to the
adults.

His brow creases as he sees the worried look on
their faces and he exhales loudly. ‘His stomach is filling up
with gas,' he says without preamble. ‘We don't know
why. I've written a new prescription and we'll watch how
he does all night. Beyond this, there's nothing I can tell you
right now.'

Dad steps forward. ‘But doctor, is
it…serious?'

Sethna sighs again. He has known my dad and uncle
for years, ever since they were all young men. ‘I don't
know, Burjor. It could be. I'll do everything that I can. Pesi
is my patient but first of all, he's my friend.'

His words fail to reassure Mehroo. ‘Just
this afternoon when we were all here, he was fine,' she says.
‘Talking, making jokes.