A New Leaf

Mrinalini Mohanty
Jul 28, 2017 · 5 min read

Madam woke up later than usual today. While she usually prefers sipping her tea in the warmth of the sunshine that falls upon the garden, the sun had hidden behind the walnut tree by the time she made her way downstairs this morning. I could sense that she had not slept well- she had dark circles under her eyes and her hair that was always tied up in a neat bun was cascading beyond her shoulders in a dishevelled manner. I hoped that the extra ginger that I added to her tea would soothe her nerves, although I knew that no herbal concoction could alleviate the pain of the trauma she had received last night. I decided the menu for lunch on my own, trying not to bother her with trivial questions today. As I sliced the onions for the curry, my thoughts kept drifting towards the events of the previous night.

Madam had been travelling a lot over the past month. Her work took her to strange parts of the world that had exotic names which I couldn’t even pronounce. Her most recent trip had been to a place in Africa, Mozambo..no no..Mozambique. Madam always bursts into laughter at my futile attempts to say the names of these curious places. However, she is also extremely patient with me. Ever since she became a part of the Mehrotra family, as the wife of the youngest and most pampered son, Rahul Baba, she has been treating me with immense respect even though I am nothing more than an ageing servant. When I expressed my desire to learn how to read and write, Madam brought me a slate and coloured chalk from the market and spent an hour with me each day, helping me trace out the alphabet. She truly filled the blank slate of my life with colours that someone of my lowly stature can only dream about. Rahul Baba did not like her interacting with a humble cook, which is why our lessons would take place in the afternoon, after he left for work.

Things were going great in the Mehrotra household until, only seven months after the marriage, Baba started drinking a lot, and his drunken shenanigans became so disgraceful that they made him lose his job. Madam remained calm despite the graveness of the situation and instead of getting flustered, started hunting for a job to make ends meet. She did not want to live off her in-laws’ money, something that Baba had no qualms about. When she finally found a job in this city, it took much coaxing from her end to convince Baba to leave his childhood home. After days of appeasement and cajoling, Baba gave in to Madam’s persistent pleading and the couple bid adieu to the rest of the family. I followed them, carrying their bags and suitcases, although Madam walked with the heaviest baggage weighing down her shoulders — that of an alcoholic husband.

After moving away from the sheltered nest built by his doting parents, Baba sobered up a little. The drinking did not stop entirely but the stench of whiskey that used to envelop him like a cloud gradually disappeared. Baba even found a job for himself at a construction company, which is perhaps where he met Chhaya. He brought her home for the first time when Madam was attending a conference in America. Being just a servant, I couldn’t protest even though I hated the sight of this promiscuous woman entering the house that Madam had tastefully decorated. Baba took her directly to the bedroom. When the door had been locked from inside, I quietly sneaked up and placed an ear on the thin wooden barrier that stood between me and the woman that was defiling Madam’s beautiful life. I moved away with disgust when the sound of ice cubes being dropped into an empty glass was replaced by muffled moans. These sinful deeds were too much for a sixty-year-old man to handle. I ran into my room and threw up. I wanted to wring Chhaya’s throat but my hands were tied. Generations of my family had served the Mehrotras, and it was the son of this household who was the real culprit in this scenario.

Chhaya became a frequent visitor to the house. Every time Madam went away, Chhaya and Baba would walk into the bungalow, shamelessly clinging to each other like two monkeys huddled up in the cold. My heart burned with rage and I desperately wanted to inform Madam about the sins that were committed in the house in her absence. However, Madam was like a daughter to me and I was afraid that she would not be able to handle the bitter truth without breaking down completely. I prayed vehemently for this affair to end and for Baba to return to his senses. The chances of this were as bleak as that of a miracle but all I could do was coax the almighty to handle what was beyond my capabilities.

Yesterday, Baba’s cell phone was ringing in the hall but he was too engrossed in watching a movie with Chhaya to notice. I received the call, it was Madam. She asked me where Baba was and I promptly lied that he was in the bathroom. She instructed me to inform him that her conference had ended early, she had already reached Delhi and was about to board her next flight. She would be home in a few hours. I promised her that I would convey her message to Baba. This was the second time I lied to her that day but the number of harrowing facts that I had concealed from her over the past one year would surely amount to much more than these white lies.

My plan worked, Madam caught the two red-handed. She entered a fit of fury that reminded me of the angry Goddess Kali. She dragged Chhaya out of the house before Baba could figure out what was happening. When she began punching his chest with her bony fists, reality finally hit him and he delivered a tight slap on her cheek that flung her to one corner of the room. I couldn’t bear to be a mute observer any longer. I placed a kitchen knife on Baba’s throat and told him to leave the house immediately and never come back. I am not sure whether I would have been able to muster the courage to murder my master, but in the heat of the moment, I sounded resolute and frightening, so much so that Baba stormed out of the house and did not return all night.

By the time the vegetables were all chopped, tears were streaming down my cheeks. I am not sure whether they were induced by the onions, by my sympathy for Madam, or by the fear that Baba would return and would get me thrown into prison for pointing a knife at him. Worse still, because this home was in Baba’s name, he could march in any time and hurt Madam.

While I was busy wondering how to deal with the troubling situation at hand, Madam called from the living room, “Pack your bags Kaka, we are going to Mozambique.” The tea had worked, Madam was ready to turn over a new leaf.

Mrinalini Mohanty

Writer, Dreamer, Storyteller and Engineer. You can find more short stories written by me at https://scribblesgrey.wordpress.com/

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