Naukar in love

He was charmed by the way she swept the porch.

The way her limber legs would carry her across the entire length of concrete from front door to gate without ever standing up or taking a step. As if she floated on a pocket of air like an angel or glided across the water like a swan. And the incessant swish of the jharu carrying the water away with each perfect swing of her arms was no less enrapturing than the tinkling of payal clad foot steps.

He would climb the araucaria tree in our porch to watch her perform this daily chore that became more a lover’s serenade than menial labor.

Their eyes met one day.

Him up amongst the branches, her down below squatting on her haunches.

She swung her head back and her dupatta dropped off her head exposing long craggy hair more breathtaking than any he had seen before. In the glare of the sun reflecting off her raven locks, he lost all conception of reality and let go of his hold on the tree. The fall hurt none at all. So beguiled was he by the dance of her hair in the slight morning breeze and the play of light in her eyes and the smile that snaked across her inhumanly thin lips. Most of all it was the smile that did him in. The smile that acquiesced to the fire burning in his heart. The smile that embraced his infatuation turning it into love.

And the rest as they say is history.

Or mystery rather.

Because when the neighbor lady called to complain about his antics his only response was denial. Citing instead his affection for their driver, swearing that the gifts that were the evidence against him were never meant for the maid. That the jelly bears and the jubilee bars were being shared with a friend rather than a beloved.

But alas the sorrow in his eyes, the shame on his face… the utter heartbreak in the way he stood slumped when the lady told him that the maid herself had lodged a complaint against him, was proof enough that he was yet another victim of feminine charms.

No more candies, no more bubble gum. No more stolen mangoes from our back yard to give to someone who seemed to like it once.

Now he stands head bowed, shoulders slumped, eyes red with stifled tears washing dishes at the basin.

And she sweeps the floors without anyone sneaking a peek through scorched leaves at her feline grace and forearm strength.

Who’s to say who was right and who was wrong?

There’s the honor of the household to be considered. Sure, the neighbor’s are responsible for the sanctity of the girl they have brought over from some obscure village. And we are certainly just as responsible for the man’s honor living amongst us. But, what right do we have to interfere with blossoming love?

Sure he’s married with a 4 year old daughter back in his village. But then he’s 20. He never got a chance. Yes we must inculcate in him the need to uphold the sanctity of marriage. He saves every penny he earns to be sent home for the welfare of his daughter and wife; he’s not an irresponsible husband. Is it really so wrong that he finally got smitten by someone? So wrong that we can’t even tolerate them sharing sweet nothings across a wall? Splitting jubilee bars in half and eating them at the same time across an iron gate?

Of course there is the case of the maid snitching on him, herself becoming bored with his advances which weren’t really advances as such. I mean seriously, a bag full of jamuns… but I’m not going to criticize his choices because you have to play the cards you’re dealt… so the girl got bored. Big deal, every woman pulls this stunt sooner or later, and then you go gunning back for her and she falls for your persistence and there you go, relationship back on track, This poor sod however has been threatened with the possibility of losing his job to keep from approaching the girl again. While the girl is in most probability sullen and disgruntled at the stupidity of her own move now that she is left with no admirers and no jamuns. Serves her right though, take what you want and then turn around and condemn the man you took it from just because it is no longer entertaining. For shame.

I look at my poor bawarchi and I can see a broken heart. Whether it is for the zaalim samaj that came between them or the women who betrayed him is anybody’s guess. But his heart lies broken, along with a bag full of jamuns that got tossed back over a wall.

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