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WHAT SHE SAID

PRITHA BHATTACHARYYA

when I called the maid ‘jhi’

             was ishhhhhhhhhhhhhhh

drawn out, like a shush,

            (quieting me even before

telling me to quiet)

            like when I showed her

cow dung on the sidewalk,

            or the shantytowns full

of window children,

            like when she chastised

the urinators water-falling

            their piss on the roadside

as our cabbie navigated us

            over cobbled streets –

to those relatives’ houses

            the ones I’d never met.

We shook hands, kissed

            cheeks, prayed at their

feet and ate their

            sweetmeats, stuffing our

faces to be polite.

            Unlike at the market, where

my mother had haggled for

            every foot of cloth, ounce

of chaal, where she

            counted each churi in the

pack, inspected

            the individual grapes.

In this house, we

            show respect, she told me

back at her home,

            scooping out handfuls of

bhath for the beggar

            at our doorstep, angel-like.

Placing a few paisa

            in his palm, cut out from

the cabbie’s intended tip,

            for driving too rashly,

she’d reasoned earlier,

            in the car, handing me

the coins to hold.