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  • Writer's pictureThe Feminist Times

Maid in India

Wanting not to be parted from my racing cars and those little trucks, I looked back in anger. My shoulders had deep, dark nail marks as she pressed me hard asking for help in desperation.

Her rapid shallow breath gave me a word of caution. She banged her hands on my house’s entrance door. Little did she realize that the door was already open.

As the drunk dark man from behind her held her wrist, without stopping to think, she banged a glass bottle on his head, the first thing she could grab from beside me.

The spring of blood was not dying out and the liters of blood multiplied as I watched stupefied. Soon, the corpse changed its shade and turned pale.

No sooner my father came downstairs than my world was blackened by his giant hands. As soon as he dialed, the cops arrived and handcuffed her. The very moment I heard a crack and realized a drop of blood fell on the floor with two unequal arcs of green shimmery glass; as I joined them together it formed a complete circle.

Before the lady in that laavni left our place, my mom offered her a band aid from our first-aid box. A tear fell down her left cheek while her right eye soaked the liquid in itself.

That is the last memory I have of the lady who baby sat me in the absence of my mother.

- Shikha Nangru

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