Maid In Singapore (8 page)

It is probably easier
for men to seek male prostitutes than it is for a woman to seek a
gigolo. It did not matter, not to me, because sex and such became
unimportant.

Initially, Jay was the
target of my preoccupation, fuelled by a zealous parent’s
raising of a successful youth. He applied himself well, seeking out
the right company and becoming industrious when it came to achieving
his goal of getting a decent education. In his corner of the flat, he
worked at his desk, and got what he had set out to get. Then he left,
to make a life for himself in the world outside my flat.

I was right after all,
not to delve into the details of his curious teenage exploits in
Singapore. Look, he turned out just fine. I had a feeling, though,
that David had broached the topic with Jay before he died. What they
concluded I know not, but it was clear to me that the onset of his
youth was not a wasted one. He was a good kid, with an interesting
past. In the future, he was his own master. My duties had been
dispensed, and in my mind, dispensed well.

Ten, or even twenty,
may seem like a bagful of years, enough to drag one on, but to me
they were a flash, illuminating my greying hair, leaving me at peace,
at a slow pace all by myself in my little flat in London. My daily
rhythm became languid as my period of senectitude began with
arthritis, high powered glasses, urge to urinate often and light
sleep each night, easily disturbed by the faintest of disturbances
and lasting only for a few hours.

Some of the commuters
had even started offering me their seats on crowded buses and
commuter trains.

In the mornings, I
headed to the community gymnasium, walking and exercising to whatever
extent my body permitted. I returned home to a breakfast of oatmeal
and fresh fruit, which I had to prepare myself, given the lack of
domestic help. Through the mornings, I sat by the computer, surfing
and penning this useless memoir, more for my pleasure than the goal
of seeking readers.

Subconsciously though,
I knew it was for Jay to discover after I had passed on, knowing the
truth that his mother knew, respecting her for respecting his privacy
through the living years and remembering her after she died.

One discerning reader
is all that I write for.

By mid-morning on most
days, I found myself in the library, reading the papers and magazines
for a few hours before settling by the café near the
supermarket where I buy groceries for the day. I buy only a small
batch of supplies each day, enough to subsist yet inadequate, so I
can plan a daily visit to the supermarket, another chore to fill up
the vacant routine of an entire day.

I remain myself,
private and happy in public places, exchanging pleasantries with the
staff before returning home late in the afternoon each day for my
nap. I visit the ISKCON temple in the evenings before settling down
at night with soup and salad in front of the tele, writing this silly
narrative till late, before catching the meagre sleep that my
crumbling body allows. I am not happy or sad, simply story-less and
old, friendless and alone, by choice.

Of the entire Hindu
pantheon, I was drawn to Lord Krishna in my advancing years, a
naughty God, with a clutch of girlfriends and the power to make
brothers fight, a God of convenience, with the ability to sway,
depending on what the situation demanded. I was drawn to his
polarized philosophy, all encompassing with justification for any
action.

Then again, the most
explosive fights, the memorable ones are always between brothers or
neighbours.

A good God is a god of
action.

Jay called, not often
but just enough to maintain a respectable contact. He visited for a
few weeks as each year wound down towards Christmas, got bored with
an old woman’s slow life and then left for more colourful days
in the coming year ahead. He was faring well and was soon working on
Wall Street, earning well, no longer dependent on the monthly stipend
that I sent him. I was proud of him.

I did not seek her,
leaving the past behind me. Even when I caught sight of her at the
supermarket, I turned away in fright and horror. Her face was the
same, other than the disfigurement that time hands out; it was
unmistakably her, short, reaching for noodles in the Asian section of
the store, on tiptoes. She still looked maid-ly, with her mum
somewhere close by ticking a list of procurement with overflowing
carts in tow. I moved away, checking out and walking home as fast as
I could, with my little bag of leeks.

I didn’t visit
the temple that evening, sitting instead by the window, looking at
the evening traffic, struggling in the streets below.

What if I had come face
to face with her? Would we greet before moving on, or would we just
feign the failure of recognition? I was glad I had seen her the way I
did, surreptitiously, leaving the choice of advancement or retreat in
my hands. I had retreated, for now. If she had seen me and said
hell
o
, unprepared I would probably reciprocate with
politeness, waiting there before something happened.

Did I not owe the
courtesy of a warning to her new
mu
m
? I would inform
her, ‘You have a
diseased-
prostituting-snake-bitch
inside your home, who will consume your men with the poison of her
lust, just like she has done with mine.’

Then again, Mary looked
in advancing years, maybe lust-less like me, a simple maid running
chores and sending money orders back home, to support the education
of children.

The encounter did not
disturb me, neither did it bother me; it simply provided an avenue of
mental immersion, another mind-filler at lonely meals by the tele, or
just before falling asleep. Unanswered questions resurfaced, with a
much milder intensity, but intensity enough to awaken curiosity.
After all, she was the only person who had all the answers to that
year in Singapore. I still did not know the where-
how-whe
n
of her affair with my son. As regards David, there was still one
question, which she could probably fill me in on—the question
of
wh
y
.

There was also the
question of her child—whose was it and where he or she was?

I did not lose sleep
over such matters, but I did change the venue of my shopping in the
week ahead, moving a few bus stops further before falling back into
my daily routine.

If there was only one
thing I could ask her, what would it be? I discarded many options,
before settling on this one ‘If you had a choice, a choice of
winding back in time, would you do it again, would you repeat your
act?’

Y
e
s
or
N
o
. Either way, I would accept and understand her
choice before walking away.

My days, too, were
drawing to a close; I had withered, needing a not-so-strong wind to
snuff me out. I could have carried these questions to my pyre, but
decided not to, I wanted to know and close loops out, as the bankers
put it, before I moved on.

Ironically, when I
started looking for her I could not find her easily. Each trip to the
supermarket, found me eyeing the Asian section from a distance,
looking for Mary. On one occasion, I even walked up to the Asian
section, looking around as if for her to find me, examining the packs
of noodles; they weren’t like the ones she used to buy in
Singapore but I took one in any case, wanting to try them. Would they
emit the same foul odour that we had come to know in Singapore?

After a few months,
looking for her became an obsession, it started to consume me, almost
as if I had to find her and ask her that one question before I died,
even if it meant heading to the Philippines on the pretext of seeking
some tropical sun. I had her address in Manila and that would have
been the last resort. I could not die, letting time carry questions
away, away from me forever—because for one, Jay would certainly
not chase or swim after them.

The noodles stank; yet
I ate them, when they cooled.

On the Internet, I
sought out the agency from where we had hired Mary and asked for Ms
Goh. She had left and they did not have her contact details or any
meaningful leads for me to follow through. There was only one person
who could help me, Inspector Simon Tan.

He was much less
trouble to locate.

When I called him, he
recognized me easily, as soon as I mentioned my name. I mean, how
could anyone forget?

‘Mrs Rashmi
Kettlewood, it is nice to hear from you after so many years. Yes, I
do remember you and your family, I hope things are well at your end,’
he seemed pleased to hear from me. I, too, warmed with a smile,
taking in his voice before filling him in at my end.

‘Yes, I saw her
here in London recently and wanted to say hello, but I can’t
seem to find her contact details anywhere. Can you help?’

‘Sure. I can see
if I can dig up anything. It remains one of the strangest incidents
that I have come across in all these years,’ he replied.

He took my details and
promised to email or call if he found anything.

He did email, after a
week or so, giving me her number in London. It was a terrestrial
line, mostly of the residence she now served. It was frightening and
exciting at the same time. I thought about it, staring at it, doing
nothing for a few days, and then I called, opening the final chapter,
coming to the point that I wanted my son to understand.

Mum’s Journal, Part Three:

Laughter

W
hen
I finally called
Mary, it was past noon, when most households usually wind down before
the kids come home, after school.

‘Hello, my name
is Rashmi Kettlewood and I am looking for Mary. I believe she works
in your household,’ I asked, assuming that the mistress of the
manor had answered the phone.

‘Hello, yes, she
is here. May I please know what this is regarding, since she usually
receives calls on her cell phone,’ the lady’s hesitation
was valid,
no-calls-for-maid
s
is a basic house rule
across the globe.

What was I supposed to
say—
Th
e
polic
e
coul
d
only
trac
e
th
e
number
o
f
he
r
current
employe
r
?

‘Well, I am an
old acquaintance from the past, trying to get back in touch with
Mary. I don’t have her mobile number and was only able to get
this number from my old agent. I am sorry to bother you,’ I
almost hung up.

‘You mean you
were her past employer?’ she cut me off.

‘Yes, I was, but
it was many years back.’

‘I wish you had
mentioned that. I will call her immediately, and it is no bother.
Just very nice of you to try and get back in touch with her,’
she kept the headset down, with scratchy electronic rustling and a
gentle thud. ‘Mary, Mary, there is a call for you,’ her
voice faded, as she receded away from the telephone.

Stupid fool—she
was judging us by the politeness of a phone call, and concluding
decency of relationships, where only the fangs of strife existed.

‘Hello, I am
Mary,’ it was a familiar drawl, laden with a Filipino twang,
the one that we had desperately fought, before our son picked it up.
Other than that, the voice was respectful. She did not know who was
on the other end of the line. It was my last chance at aborting this
whim of senility; I missed my opportunity and went headlong into
conversation.

‘Hello, Mary.
It’s me, Mrs Rashmi Kettlewood,’ I simply announced
myself; there was a pause on the phone line.

‘Hello, mum. How
are you, mum? It had been so much time, mum,’ she was still
polite, which was a relief.

‘I am fine, how
are you?’ I, too, was courteous. Politeness is disarming, is it
not?

‘I am fine, mum.
Been here in London for one year, mum. Are you also in London?’
she asked.

‘Yes I am, and I
want to meet you, if that is okay. I have something of yours that I
want to return,’ best to draw her closer, before delving into
questions that had festered for so many years.

‘Mum, I can meet
only on Sunday, after church if you are free, maybe near St Paul’s,’
her tone was balanced, and she was ready to meet.

We set a time for our
rendezvous, and exchanged a few more words; I took her mobile number
but did not give her mine, hanging up politely before moving away
from the payphone back to the flat for some more traffic gazing by my
window.

On Sunday, I waited for
her at the café near St Paul’s. When she arrived, we
moved away, towards the neighbourhood park. We spoke as we walked.

She already knew about
David. ‘I was sorry to hear about sir. My friends told me, and
I did not think it was appropriate for me to call,’ she said. A
sound judgment, I thought, by any measure, at least as regards where
time stood then. Now, it seemed okay, her feelings and best wishes.

She did not ask about
Jay, I mean how could she enquire of a child’s well-being, one
on whom she had committed crimes of underage sex, pleasurable no
doubt, but crimes all the same.

It was an awkward
rambling, pointless as we strolled; I searched but found no cues to
cut in and start my interrogation, seeking answers that could finally
put my curiosity at bay.

We sat on a bench,
eating our sandwiches, sipping water from our bottles. A group of
boys were playing cricket on the lawn in front of us, completely
immersed in their game, as if life depended on its outcome.

‘Mum, is there
anything that you wanted to see me for?’ she finally asked me.

‘Not really,
Mary, so many things have changed, I just wanted to say
hell
o
,’
I lied, getting caught in my lies.