Keeper of secrets

The cupboard was open. The handbag was on the middle shelf, at eye level. A purse, peeped out from the bag – silver flowers and golden leaves on a silken and violet skin. I felt it beckoning me, daring me – and I am not one to shy away from a dare. When I pulled it out of the bag, its bloated softness filled the cup of my palm. Its clasp opened willingly at the touch of my fingers.

The siren from the factory blared, startling me. It was 3 pm, Ikkaka, my elder brother, must have lifted his foot from the pedal at that moment. The loom would slow down now, little by little, taking its time. Soon a sea of blue-uniformed men and women would stream out of the gates of the mill, keen to get home after their shift. Further away, my little brother and sister must have jumped up from their seats in their classrooms, eager to join the army of children rushing out of school. If my older sister had been at home and not at her mother-in-law's, she would have been standing at the gates of the creche, waiting for her toddler son to come out. And Habib, he might be on his way to the beach where I am supposed to meet him later today. Habib… the unexpected gift from my father, it would only be an hour more until we meet.

Umma would have heard the siren too. She must have started laying the table for her children. Nothing fancy. Fish curry for sure, though in this rain, she might have had to make do with dried fish. Okra, tomatoes and warm rice. My siblings are generally happy with this fare. But not me. I want more. Fried fish and pappadam, curd, cabbage – red, not the usual green. My mother says I should have been born in a rich household. At least then she would have been spared the trouble of having to raise me.

***

From childhood, my memories are of Umma hurrying to the doctor's bungalow. She would place the previous night's warmed up rice and rotis on the stone platform in the kitchen for me and my siblings. There are five of us in all, a sister and a brother older than me and a brother and a sister younger than me. That's my place – neither the beloved first nor the cherished last – a girl and that too, in the middle. Umma would run off hurriedly calling out instructions. "Go to school all of you. Take care of the little ones, and Laila, don't even think of cutting classes."

In the evening when we returned from school, Umma would be waiting for us with leftover food from the bungalow, along with the rice and fish curry she had prepared for us. All of us fought for the fancy food from the bungalow.

After failing high school twice, I proposed the idea of helping Umma with her chores at the bungalow. She said, "That is one sensible decision you've made in all your life. At least then I will not have to worry about where you are and what you are doing." It also gave her time to work elsewhere and earn a little more.

Thus began an exciting journey for my palate – a piece of fried seer fish, five prawns, a leg of fried chicken, a slice of chocolate cake with a dollop of ice cream, trips to restaurants where everyone ate with spoons. Even after Umma returned to our two-room house after finishing her work, I stayed back in the two-storey mansion – till its owners came in the evening and reclaimed their home and its ordered atmosphere, giving me the permission to go back to my cluttered world.

I didn't have any regrets. It was a good arrangement, one that suited all of us, including Zeba aunty: someone in the house to give company to aunty's aged parents and a chance for me to earn a bit of money. But the biggest benefit for me was the freedom. I did not have to worry about prying eyes checking my movements, monitoring me constantly. The old couple mostly stayed in their room and after lunch, they retired for a siesta.

On alternate days though, I had company. I did not mind sharing this time with Salma, who came to sweep the yard and wash clothes.  After work we walked home together, sometimes taking a detour to meet our friends. We performed our tasks at leisure – talking, eating, helping ourselves occasionally to the sweets, dried fruits, mangoes and pomegranates stuffed in the refrigerator. At first Salma did not want to the touch the stuff in the fridge without permission. But I pointed out that it was out in the open and, not locked. Surely it meant that Zeba aunty did not mind us taking the food. She thought for a while, and then nodded slowly, a little smile on her lips.

***

I still had to wash the plates and also sweep and mop the kitchen. By then Zeba aunty would return from office. I could leave after making her a cup of tea.

Zeba Ansari is the wife of Dr Ansari, and the only daughter of the house. Her son and daughter studied in city colleges and came home only during weekends or holidays. Now the son was at home, apparently to prepare for his exams. As far as I could see, he spent most of his time in front of the television rather than his books. I tried to understand the game he was watching on TV by asking him a few questions. But he just shooed me off.

So I went upstairs to take the clothes out from the washing machine. Then I remembered that the battery in my phone was low on charge. I usually used Zeba aunty's charger. When Habib gave me the phone on my birthday, a gift wrapped in a shoebox tied with satin ribbons, I had asked him jokingly whether it was a working phone. Of course, the question irritated him. But there was no charger and when I pointed this out, his eyes widened and he slapped his head. He promised to get one soon. Two months later, I was still waiting for it. I would have to remind him again.

I could not find Zeba aunty's mobile charger on the table in her room. Maybe she had taken it to work. As I turned to go back, the big toe of my left foot hit against the cot, right at the spot where the broken glass piece had pierced it two days ago. The wound that had started healing cut open again. Isn't it like that always – an open wound is struck again and again before it is allowed to eventually heal?

I looked down, but thankfully, it wasn't as bad as the first time. My protestations that Ikkaka should clean the broken mess and not me, had gone unheard. As usual, Umma had taken his side.

"If you had made tea for him when he asked you to, your brother would not have thrown the glass at you." Umma's words fluttered inside the narrow canals of my ears even now, round and round, searching for a way to get out.

I looked up and saw the open cupboard.

Salma was at the kitchen door when I came down after a while.

"Where were you? The door was wide open, anyone could have got in."

"I was upstairs, taking the clothes out of the washing machine. You are late today."

She sighed, "I missed the morning bus. Did anyone ask for me?" she peered into the interior of the house, checking to see if Zeba aunty's mother was at the door or in the hallway.

"No, the oldies have gone for a house warming. They haven't come back yet. The son is watching television. You wash the whites; I have put everything else in the machine. Let's finish up fast. Habib's friend is coming and he's asked me to bring you along."

"Me, why?"

I knew her surprise was feigned. I could see a touch of red brightening her cheeks, a  spark lighting up her eyes, as if a fragment of sunlight was trapped inside her face.

"Ah, as if you don't know…" I couldn't resist teasing her.

"No, no… you move girl, I have work to do."

I laughed and caught her dupatta, "…someone wants to see you it seems", I sang.

"Leave me," she said and ran inside, a smile on her lips.

I went to the room adjoining the kitchen. Two walls were fully covered with shelves on which containers filled with pulses, grains, and sugar was stored. On the top shelf were unused containers, of varying shapes and sizes. A narrow bed along the third wall, below the window overlooking the well, was for us – the hired help – to sit or lie down if necessary. I sat on the bed now and removed my earrings. Zeba aunty had given them to me three years back when I cleared my tenth standard exams. I rarely removed them. If I took them out, someone else would lay claim on it and I could as well forget about getting them back.

Last time I met Habib, he said he wanted to go to Bangalore. A relative had promised him a job as a mechanic. Not that he had the training but he was confident he could learn on the job. He did not have any money for the trip. I saw him looking at my ears when he said this but I did not acknowledge the question his eyes had asked.

When I think back to how I met him, I am amazed at how life plays out. If I had not taken the blows meant for Umma that night from Uppa, I would never have met Habib. Uppa's gift of a broken tooth put me in that clinic where Habib too was waiting to get his dislocated tooth, courtesy the police, fixed.

I could help Habib now and I did not even have to part with my earrings. I took out a small container from the top shelf.

***

When I came to work the next day, Zeba aunty met me at the door. She started talking as soon as she saw me.

"Laila, money is missing from my purse; do you know anything about it?"

"Oh my god, how did it happen?"

"Quite a lot of money is missing; I called up Salma and asked her too. She said both of you left together. If you know anything about it, tell me. Did anyone come yesterday?"

"I haven't taken it," I blurted out and then said, "and no, nobody came yesterday. But why are you questioning me like this – I am poor so naturally I'm the first one you suspect." Tears came easily to my eyes. After all, I just had to think of Umma's oft repeated words, "You singlehandedly create more trouble for me than your sisters and brothers put together they should have let you be when you didn't cry at birth."

Zeba aunty's brow remained creased but her lips were no longer thin and pressed together.

"Then where did it go?" she turned to me again, "are you sure no one came home yesterday – air conditioner service man or the cable repair man?"

"No one had come yesterday." When money goes missing, the first suspects are the hired help, then the service people who might have come to repair or service an appliance.

Zeba aunty's mother came near us. "Are you sure you had the money in the purse? Maybe you spent it on something yesterday. It is the end of the month. You might have gone to stock up the fridge or buy provisions."

"No, I didn't go anywhere yesterday. I had a headache and came home after office, and anyway the money was in the cupboard, not with me."

"You check your cupboard again, Zeba. Maybe it has fallen in between the clothes. Have you asked your son?"

"No, he's busy with his exams, and in any case he wouldn't take money without asking me."

Her mother turned to me, "You go now and start your work, and where's your mother?"

"She said she'll come after an hour, she's gone to the market to buy fish."

"Good, we have some guests for dinner."

***

As I let myself out of the gate, a figure in black appeared in front of me. It was Salma.

I laughed, "Why are you wearing a burkha?"

She did not smile. "I was waiting for you to come out. Listen, did Zeba aunty ask you about some missing money?"

I nodded my head.

"Did you take it?"

I stared at her, "What, are you suggesting that I might have taken it?"

She stared back and said, "I saw you giving money to Habib."

So Salma had noticed.

I tucked my dupatta behind my ears and directed her attention to my ear lobes.

"Can you see my earrings?" I asked her.

She shook her head.

"I cannot believe you thought I would… never mind…" I walked off without waiting for her reaction. I did not trust myself to keep a straight face. And she was clever enough.

***

The minute I entered the house the following day, I sensed it – a tautness in the air.  I went straight to the sink and opened the tap to start washing the dishes.

"Ah Laila, is that you, please come here." Zeba aunty called out from the living room.

"What is it?" I rubbed my palms on my kurta and went inside. My chest felt tight, and I tried taking in a couple of deep breaths.

Zeba aunty told me without wasting time on pleasantries, "I'm going to call the police, but I want ask you once again, did you take the money? Tell me truthfully and it will end here."

"No, I did not take the money."

She looked down at my feet, "How did you injure your toe?"

Confused, I too looked down, "Some problem at home…"

"Well, there was a smudge of blood on the floor, by the cupboard…" Zeba aunty did not take her eyes off from mine. I could not look away.

I curled my toes. My big toe covered with a soiled bandage, red and brown, refused to bend. I took in a deep breath. "It's true I was in your room. I wanted to charge my mobile and I went looking for your charger. But I haven't taken any money."

Zeba aunty looked at me, "So you did not take the money."

I shook my head.

"Then you don't have anything to worry. When I call the police, they will come and investigate all the people in the house. This includes you, Salma and even us. They will conduct a search here, in your house and in Salma's house." I nodded my head. I wondered if Salma had said something to her.

"Okay, go and do your work then."

As I turned on the tap again, the image of a police van outside my house stayed fixed in my mind. A din of laments resounded within the walls of my ears: Why did they revive you at birth? Why do you spend time with the neighbourhood boys? Do you want a bad name? Why do you keep picking fights at the market?

At the same time, a kaleidoscope of images flitted across my mind – neighbours looking through their windows with duppatas covering their wide open lips. Ikkaka losing his job, my little brother and sister facing taunts at school, and Umma with eyes, red and swollen, standing on the road, while the police overturned furniture, cleared out shelves, and scavenged our bare cupboards. Of course, they would not find a biscuit tin stuffed with money in my house.

A sour bitterness spread inside my mouth. I looked out of the window. The sun was sitting in the horizon, gathering all its strength to beam out its fiery rays for the day. A whiff of air, laced with the scent of eucalyptus leaves, floated in through the open window, cooling my brows, my head, my thoughts. "I will come back and marry you. I'll call you when I reach." Habib's words, uttered two days ago, echoed in my ears.

After completing my chores, I pleaded a headache, which was not untrue, and asked to go home. To my surprise, Zeba aunty agreed without a murmur.

I returned a little while later and handed over a bundle of notes to her, "It is not the full amount, you can cut the rest from my salary."

She took it and looked at me, "If you needed money you could have asked me." I looked down and said, "I'm sorry, I won't repeat this again."

She leaned forward, "Why did you take it?"

I just shook my head, "It was there in the purse, in the open cupboard, for me to take. So I took it."

Zeba aunty just shook her head too and sighed. "So if it is out in the open, you'll take it… do you think it is alright to do so?"

I shook my head. If Umma came to know, Ikkaka's belt buckles would work overtime.

I turned on the tap in my eyes, "Please please, I know I should not have done it." sniffling, I continued, "I will not repeat it, please…"

She shook her head and then said, "Ok, if anything like this happens again…"

"Never, never." I touched my ears. The soft lobes beneath my fingers felt empty.

I went to the little room and checked my phone. No missed calls and no messages. Bangalore was just eight hours away by bus. Surely Habib would have reached by now. I dialled his number and a woman's voice gave me the same information she had been giving me from the day before: "the number you are dialling is either switched off or out of coverage area".

I looked at the phone, sleek and black. It was as wide as my palm and as long, one side covered in glass, a little square eye at the back for taking pictures and videos – I really did not need such a fancy phone.

I would wait a day more for Habib to call.

Maybe I could go help the neighbour aunty, who was always calling me to come for just one hour, to cut the vegetables and sweep the place.

I covered my ears with my dupatta and promised myself I would get my earrings back soon.

~ Fehmida Zakeer's stories have come out in various journals and print anthologies. She won the Himal Southasian short story competition 2013 and her story, 'Pot of Water' was chosen by the National Library Board of Singapore for the 2013 edition of their annual READ! Singapore anthology.