Geeta
After a week away, Geeta returned on Saturday morning.
Niru’s husband sat at the dining table, the newspaper spread across the glass. His head was bent over it, one finger moving slowly along the lines.
The front door was open. Geeta walked through the dining room toward the kitchen. As she passed the table, he looked up.
“How long were you gone this time,” he said, lifting the edge of the paper slightly.
Geeta stopped at the kitchen doorway and looked back. “It was my sister’s marriage,” she said. “I told Ma I couldn’t come for three days. But after that, I fell sick.” She stood there with her head down.
He kept looking at her, then dropped his eyes back to the paper. “Don’t take leave anymore.”
Geeta stood there until Niru called her. Niru was at the stove, watching the tea rise in the saucepan. Geeta walked to the sink and rested her hand on the tap. “Ma, I was really sick. And I have something on my arm, a hard ball. It gives me pain.”
Niru turned the flame down. “When you couldn’t come, I told you to call me.” She switched off the stove and poured the tea through the strainer. Two cups. Then a third. She placed a cup on the counter next to the sink. “Show your arm to a doctor.” She picked up the other two cups and walked out.
Geeta looked at the steaming cup, then opened the tap. She squeezed dishwashing liquid into a bowl and began lifting the utensils one by one.
Niru came back into the kitchen. She opened the cupboard, took out a few biscuits, arranged them on a small steel plate, and placed it beside Geeta’s tea. “Drink your tea first. Then do the dishes.”
Geeta nodded. Niru left, holding two biscuits in her hand.
In the dining room, her husband was still at the table. Niru set both biscuits on the rim of his cup and sat down.
He lifted his head. “Because of you, she acts like this,” he whispered, his voice different from before. “Takes leave whenever she wants. Go give her tea, give her this, give her that.”
From the kitchen came the clank of steel against steel, the steady fall of water, the rhythmic sound of bangles.
“She was sick. You could see it on her face.” Niru took a sip. “I told her to call before taking leave next time.”
Her husband didn’t touch his cup. His eyes returned to the paper. “If she stops coming one more day, I’ll cut her money.”
“From morning…” Niru stopped. She pushed her chair back, the wooden legs scraping the floor, wobbling. As she walked toward the balcony, her husband watched her go, then picked up a biscuit and returned to the paper.
A moment later, Geeta came out of the kitchen looking for the broom. She found it in the corner of the hallway and began sweeping the living room, then the bedroom.
When Niru returned from the balcony, empty cup in hand, she stopped.
Geeta was bent awkwardly. One foot lay flat on the floor; the other balanced on its toes. She held the broom in her left hand, only the tips of the bristles touching.
“Don’t sweep,” Niru said. “Not for the next few days.” She walked past her into the kitchen.
Her husband stared after Niru. He folded the newspaper, and walked into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him.
Geeta didn’t put the broom down. She kept dragging it across the floor, gathering the dust, emptying it into the bin.
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“Ma, I’m leaving,” she called, slipping on her sandals.
Niru came out of the kitchen. “Go to the doctor.”
She nodded and walked slowly down the stairs.
Later that afternoon, Niru sat on the bed. The newspaper lay open over the bedsheet, one corner held down by her phone, the other by her hand.
Her husband came into the room. “I was talking with Rosy Madam,” he said. “They haven’t paid Geeta this month. She does this everywhere. Every week or two, one day missing, two days missing.”
Niru didn’t look at him. She didn’t say anything.
“If she stops one more day, I’ll let her go.” He walked out.
Niru shook her head. She lifted one page, then another, adjusted her glasses against her temple, and kept reading.
Each morning that week, Geeta arrived and mentioned her arm. Each morning, Niru told her to see a doctor. Each morning, Geeta shook her head and picked up the broom.
On Sunday, Niru’s husband sat at the dining table. The front door was open. His phone lay on the glass, playing old songs, and the newspaper folded on the table beside it.
Six became six-thirty. Six-thirty became seven.
No sign of Geeta.
The night before, their daughter and son-in-law had arrived. The sink held more dishes than usual.
“Lag ja gale…” came from his phone along with his murmur. When Niru walked in from the balcony and stopped at the table, her husband looked up. He pressed the volume down until the phone went silent. “See? She didn’t come today. Didn’t call. If she comes tomorrow, it’ll be her last day.”
Niru glanced toward the bedroom door. “Talk slowly. They are sleeping.”
She walked into the kitchen. He followed, stopping at the sink behind her. “Who is going to do all these dishes?”
“Her arm was hurting. She’s been telling me for weeks.”
“She is lying, and you believe her every time. You gave her money when she went to her sister’s wedding. You’re spoiling her.” He turned and walked out.
From the dining room, his murmur returned — sayad isi janam mein…
Niru stood at the sink and turned on the tap. Water rushed over the dishes, spilling across the rims.
A few minutes later her daughter came into the kitchen, leaned against the counter, rubbing her eyes. “Geeta didn’t come?”
Niru shook her head, eyes on the sink, hands moving in circles inside the kadai. “I’ll make tea after this.”
Her daughter turned to the stove and switched on the burner. “Why was papa shouting? His voice woke us up.”
“Geeta didn’t come. Your father kept shouting. Always the same thing.”
Her daughter placed a saucepan over the flame. “Why don’t you buy a dishwasher?”
Niru let the water run over the kadai. She didn’t answer. She waited until the soap water ran out of it, then closed the tap.
