NAFISA – AN ODE

NAFISA  – An Ode

                                                                                 

                                                                                    I

The doorbell rang just as I finished draping my saree. Who could it be so early in the morning, I wondered. It was just after 7:00 am. Already running behind schedule, I was not particularly happy at this disturbance.

 I had shifted to a new residential society just a few weeks back. And hardly had any acquaintances here, leave aside friends. So who was so interested to meet me early in the day?

Impatiently, I opened the door. There stood a slim young woman in salwar kameez. Her head was covered with a dupatta. “Didi”, she said, “you are looking for a maid?” Quiet confidence exuded in her voice. She was looking for a job and seemed to require it too. And yet, her query seemed more of a statement, not a plea. There was a sense of quiet dignity around her.

 Someone I can work with, I thought appreciatively.

“Yes, I need someone to help me,” I replied. “Can you come back later in the afternoon and we could talk.”

She nodded and left. I completed my chores and kissed a quick bye to the sleeping Twinkle. I gave a final check to all doors and windows and the gas stove in the kitchen. Twinkle’s breakfast was neatly laid on the dining table. Hopefully, everything should be fine while I was away.

By the time I locked the door and pressed the elevator button, the morning conversation with the young woman had already taken a back seat. As I reached the basement car park, my primary thoughts hovered around reaching school on time. The newly introduced biometric system had ensured that. The morning domestic routine, a 15-minute drive to school, not to mention the daily struggle of finding decent parking, ensured that it was ‘touch and go’ for me most of the time.

As I rushed inside the school premises, the impending staff meeting followed by a PTM were my primary concerns. It would be a long and tiring day. Parent-Teacher Meetings, or PTMs as they are commonly known, tended to be so. The long queue of parents, almost similar questions asked, the exercise in patience, and gentle diplomacies. Oh! The life of a teacher.

As expected, the PTM extended beyond stipulated time. I was just about able to type a couple of messages to Twinkle. It assured me when she immediately responded. A mother’s relief that all was well. If Twinkle took the time to reply to a message or pick up my call, my heart would flutter. All kinds of strange and silly thoughts would cross my mind. They still do. Twinkle is now 21 years old and a responsible adult, or so I would like to think. Nevertheless, hardly anything has altered. As they say, once a mother, always a mother.

By the time, I returned home in the afternoon, my saree was living a life of its own. The drawstring of the petticoat was biting into the skin and the high heels were hurting my feet tremendously. And to think that I was seated most of the time.

The young woman of the morning was the least of my thoughts. She was long forgotten.

“Namaste didi”, I heard a salutation as I unlocked the main door. “I was waiting for you as per your instructions.”

I swirled around. She had taken me unawares. This was so unexpected. And yet, there she was, waiting for me. It was a hot and humid day. She looked tired. Later, I came to know that she had waited on the stairs of the building all the while. With nothing else to occupy her and home being a long walk away, she had preferred to sit in a quiet place and wait for me. 

This was how I met Nafisa. Though at that time she introduced herself as Alka. Somehow the name didn’t find a rapport with me, but I ignored the misgiving.

After having changed to some lighter clothes and served lunch to Twinkle, I got down to the task of hiring my first household staff. Until now, Twinkle and I had been living with my parents. My husband worked from Mumbai. The routine humdrum of hiring and managing domestic staff was my mother’s responsibility.

When did this task become mine, I wondered, as I assessed Alka. I prodded myself to think of some intelligent questions to ask. It was a job interview, after all.

She was willing to work in the afternoons and would be happy with the salary I offered. That was it. The next day Alka joined the household.

Soon we fell into a daily rhythm. Alka would sit on the stairs and wait every afternoon. We three would enter the house together and while Twinkle and I would refresh with a bath and sit for lunch, she would begin her daily chores.

 Days passed and I learned more about her. She had four children, a girl, and three boys. Originally from Aligarh, she had come to Noida looking for work. Life was very tough in Aligarh and many nights had been spent hungry. At her sister-in-law’s behest, she came to Noida. They were already working in my society. So, it was a natural progression that she too looked for employment here. If nothing else, that would ease the burden of walking alone to and fro from home.

Home was Wajidpur, a neighbouring village across the expressway. Here Alka and her extended family had taken rooms on rent. With no other means of affordable transport, the women walked to work.

While others worked during the morning, Alka had to wait for me until midafternoon. In the  initial months, her younger sister-in-law volunteered to stay back. By and by, though, Alka gained confidence in returning home alone. She also took up other employment. Her finances began to improve, slowly but surely.

                                                                         II

Alka was loquacious by nature. She could chat for hours on end. Afternoons meant nap time for me. Nothing could ever alter this. My afternoon siesta coincided with her mopping. I would doze off while she kept her babble. It didn’t matter whether I listened or not.

One afternoon, while randomly gazing out of the bedroom window, it suddenly flashed to me. Why had I taken so long to notice the obvious?

“Alka”, I called out to her, “Is that your name?”

My abrupt question made her look up from work. Placing the broomstick on one side, she gingerly sat on the floor.

“Didi, I will be honest with you.” My name is Nafisa. Getting a job could have been difficult with that name. So, I was advised a name change.”

 She looked imploringly at me. It saddened me. This fear and apprehension had to go.

“Of course “, I replied, “don’t worry. This means nothing to me. Follow your religion, be proud of it, and remain a good person. That’s important.”

Her face burst in a smile of relief. The burden was over. Alka could once again become Nafisa.

This conversation as it turned out, boosted her confidence. She now got the courage to identify herself as Nafisa to one and all.

 A bond was gradually building between Nafisa and me. She would talk a great deal about her family, children, relatives, even her landlord in the village and his family. I would have easily identified them anywhere, I knew so much about them now.

Time flew by. Nafisa’s husband, Asif joined her from Aligarh. She was not happy about this move. He was the reason for her initial exodus. A wastrel who prefered playing cards rather than contributing to household expenses, Nafisa saw him more as a burden. When violence became the norm in Aligarh, she had thought it better to move.

Now, as he joined her and the children, Nafisa was worried the same cycle would replay.

Her reservations were not without fear.

By now, I had given her a pair of house keys. She could come and leave at her convenience. She still, however, chose to come in the afternoons. “Bhabhi, coming in the afternoons means that I get to meet you”, was her justification.

“Bhabhi”.

I had got elevated to a new position. I had risen in her eyes and was now addressed as a closer relative. No longer the generic didi for me.

I felt happy. It made me feel special.

                                                                                  III

One afternoon, on returning from school, the sight of Nafisa shocked me. The right side of her face was badly swollen, her eye was bruised, and there were injuries in the arms and legs. On seeing me, she burst into tears.

There had been a quarrel at home. It had escalated into a violent fight. Her present look was a result of that.

 What could the reason be for this barbarity?

As typically, it was money. Asif continuously demanded money from her. When she resisted, he beat and kicked her.

It was a horrible sight. I did not know what to do, how to help her. I could dress the external wounds. But the problem in itself. How could I help her there?

The coming months would see a repetition of the same incident. I tried speaking to Asif a few times. He stopped picking up my phone and did not come to meet me when I asked him to.

 Nafisa kept enduring, hoping that things would take a turn for the better.

Meanwhile, our new apartment was ready. My husband had now joined us. It was time to shift to our own home. There was a lot of work to do. Shifting is no mean task and it took its toll on me too.

 Nafisa joined in the exercise. She began coming early and helped in packing and unpacking.

She had been working at my home for over 3 years now. There was nothing hidden from her. She had become part of the family.

During this time, Nafisa introduced me to her family too. One day she would bring along her mother, the next day her sister. A formal visit of her newly married brother and sister-in-law turned out to be like a mini party at home.

And then, Asif fell ill. Years of overdrinking cheap spurious liquor had weakened his system. One morning he woke up to a severe paralytic attack. Nafisa left no stone unturned to help him recover. She took him to hospitals, fly by night sadhus, visited pirs and ‘neem hakims’, arranged for magic potions and herbs. Noida to Aligarh, she tried it all. The recovery was very slow and the attack would repeat itself almost every successive winter.

This changed the equation in their relations. His physical misery and pain possibly softened his approach. Or, perhaps he began to appreciate Nafisa, after all. It was a tough time for Nafisa. But understandably she was content too. Life had become peaceful. No more abuses, physical or verbal. For the first time in all these years, Nafisa began to gain weight.

                                                                            IV

Taking unannounced leave from work was a sore area between her and me. A newborn child had to be blessed here, a funeral had to be attended there. No wedding would be complete without her presence, the explanations were endless.

I had reprimanded her several times about it, got angry, threatened termination. Nothing had worked. She knew I would chicken out before taking any action. She had wisely assessed.

                                                                              V

One day, Nafisa came with a box of sweets. “Bhabhi, bless Nisha”, she smilingly said.

Nisha was the apple of her eye. Her only daughter. Now all grown up at 18, a marriage proposal had been received through a relative. The young man, Abrar was a mason by profession. He had seen Nisha dance at a wedding. So smitten was he by her, that his insistence was on marriage right away.

Nafisa was in seventh heaven. Everything seemed to be falling in place. She had begun building her own home in Aligarh. Two rooms, a kitchen and bathroom were ready. And now her beloved daughter would soon be a bride. The supreme power was kind to her.

Marriage preparations, however, meant more leave from work. Days became weeks. I could not complain. That would have been inhumane.

The invitation card was a calendar. A most unique presentation. The marriage itself was a grand affair. Keeping in tradition with the village ethos, the menu was vegetarian. Halwais were hired on the recommendation of the landlady. The bridal lehenga came from Chandini Chowk in Delhi.

Finally, the auspicious day arrived. A big open field behind the village school had been pre-booked as the venue. Preparations began in the early morning. Soon, guests began arriving. Gifts to the bride were put on display for all to behold.

The bridegroom arrived in a horse-driven chariot. Music played at its loudest. Curious villagers were peering from their windows and terraces. A wedding party was always an interesting sight. Abrar was ceremoniously welcomed by the mother of the bride. I watched all this from a distance. To see Nafisa in this new role was pleasant, to say the least.

 The bride dressed in all finery, meanwhile, was demurely sitting in her aunt’s home. By the time, I went to meet her, all women from the groom’s side were already there. Nisha looked lost. I felt bad for her. I was acutely aware of Twinkle too getting married one day.

Once the Kazi completed the nuptial ceremony, Nisha and Abrar were man and wife. While the family was busy with the marriage proceedings, the rest of us enjoyed our lunch. Paneer pasanda, chole poori, mixed vegetables, rice, and noodles, everything was in plenty. Nafisa had managed a great feat.

Nafisa returned to work several days after the wedding. She was extremely happy. Her face shone in the warm glow of serenity. The wedding and all its preparations had won her great appreciation. Almost single-handedly, she had managed the near impossible.

But, ambition and desire raised its head again. Soon she was arranging money for the extension of her house at Aligarh. “Bhabhi”, she told me one day, cautiously, “I will have to go to Aligarh for a longer period. Would it be okay if Ameena works until I return?” Ameena was her younger sister-in-law.

I asked her for some time to mull over the proposition. Ameena was not Nafisa. I hardly knew her.

What choice did I have! Ameena was better than a stranger. I agreed.

Nafisa returned to Aligarh, designer, architect, mason, labour, all rolled in one. Ameena took over at my home.

Somewhere down a few months, however, Ameena gave up. Frail and delicate, it was truly difficult for her to manage. I had no reason to complain.

I was forced to look for another help. When I broke the news to Nafisa on phone, she quietened but accepted the inevitable.

VI

Time passed by. Nafisa returned to Wajidpur. She was now working in a residential society in her neighbourhood. 

A few days after Deepawali in November, while driving to school in the morning, I quite unexpectedly received a call from Nafisa. She had phoned me a few times earlier, but I had not replied. Now, sheepishly, I gave an excuse.

Ignoring my attempt, Nafisa excitedly said. “Bhabhi”, “I have become a Nani.” Nisha had just an evening before given birth to a bonny girl. Nafisa was now a grandmother. She excitedly continued, “I will be going to meet baby Aisha today evening. I will send you photographs.”

“And yes, Bhabhi”, she went on, “I will be joining you back when I return.”

 It was not a request. It was an order. I was to merely fulfill it.

“Yes”, I agreed. I too was a bit lost without her. I wanted her to join back.

The thought of Nafisa returning made me happy for the day.

The next morning, while at school, I received a call from my husband. He was working from home that day and had just received a message from the main office guard. “Sir”, the guard had informed him, “Maid Nafisa who worked in your home died at a local hospital yesterday evening.”

I was stunned, shattered. It could not be true. Why, we had spoken just that morning. How did this happen? How could this happen?

The tyres of the motorbike she was travelling on to meet Nisha and Aisha burst on the expressway. Her brother-in-law with whom she was pillion riding had survived with injuries.

Nafisa left this world without meeting her granddaughter.