It had not been easy. You didn’t go from a Big Brother house-styled kitchen to firewood cooking, from a four-poster bed to a mattress that looked and felt like factory waste slapped together, from air conditioned rooms to musty, draughty ones, from cable and a hundred Channels to choose from to Home movies on VCD everyday, from power supply, augmented by inverters and standby generators that changed-over swiftly without so much as a blink, to epileptic power supply, power failure and power cuts, and the most difficult of all, from running water to water fetched from a stream.
Every morning, Kejie’s uncle stood on the small verandah facing the untarred road that ran in front of the house, and cursed the government. He had a potpourri of reasons to curse the government, that he rifled through every day, selected his grievance as suited his mood and proceeded to curse; when it wasn’t salaries, it was the bad roads, and when it wasn’t the light situation, it was water. The water situation was especially irritating because for over eight months, a borehole had been sunk and the giant overhead tank gleaming in the sun was a constant tease. The water was still as unavailable as ever it was, on account of the fact that the government had not come to commission it. Eight months, he would exclaim. Just to come and cut a ribbon and take some pictures and they cannot come. Haba!
Kejie’s aunt had tried to treat her specially, telling her she wouldn’t let her do any work around the house. But she had cleared out the children’s clothes from the wardrobe and left Kejie all the hangers to put hers up. She had brought out the new sheets she kept hidden in her metal box under her bed, and made up the flaky mattress; she had gone down on her knees and mopped the room floor, and told the children not to touch Aunty’s things. She had declared that the newest bucket, and only breakable plate they owned were for aunty Kejie.
Kejie’s discomfort at the new unfamiliar surroundings was assuaged by the frank welcome and lack of contrivance, and she marvelled at such generosity of spirit. She in turn quickly realised that she would do anything for this family.
She took on her role as helper to the household, big aunty to the children, and confidante and friend to Monica. At first on her assumption of household chores had been met by Monica with shocked dismay and mild censure, but seeing Kejie’s determination, she had gradually relaxed and let go, watching with awe as a girl who was an only child, and who clearly came from means learned the ropes – rising at first light or even dark depending on the time of year, bathing and feeding the kids, helping them with their homework, teaching them new words, always patient and smiling.
Sometimes, Monica watched her as she bent over the children, marvelling at her, and yet somewhat perturbed. She always felt that beneath the calm exterior, there was something . . . something she could not name. She felt like peeling layers of skin off from around the smiling mouth sure a frown lurked beneath, like cracking open the skull, certain that what gurgled beneath, the pulsing brain, was dark.
Kejie could have helped her if she’d seen these contemplative forays into her head and mind. She could have told her of her mother who was a professor of linguistics and thought a head bent over a child’s book was far beneath her brainpower, how a mother’s hug was as alien as an alien’s, how a house that ran on the well oiled wheels of countless domestic staff for every task had never managed to create the ambience of a home and how her father, and excellent provider who ‘pulled his weight,’ was aloof.
Kejie could tell her how she felt grateful to Monica and her home, how the cuddles of the children filled her heart to bursting, how her hands froze in panic at the thought of ever leaving, how she felt privileged to be allowed to help out and she still felt she was not doing enough however much she did.
Monica embraced with time – something she had to learn – the luxury of lying in bed till the sunlight streaming in, or the children climbing all over her, woke her.
She had confided in Kejie that they were trying for another child, a boy: that her husband was trying all the positions he had heard enabled the right genes for a boy, twisting her into unnatural shapes and angles, and hammered her with such gusto, transferring all his pent up hopes into every single thrust while the spring bed whined and creaked. She was frightened that it would be a girl again – the last child, stillborn had been and she had seen the accusation on her husband’s face.
“He teaches Biology, doesn’t he?’ Kejie asked.
“Yes,” Monica replied.
“Okay, tell him to send you Y chromosomes and you will give him a boy.” Kejie had explained and Monica had clapped her hands, delighted and said she would share this information with all the women in the yard. So it was the men all along!
***
