Sunita

I grew up like a princess. My childhood home was a huge rambling mansion. It was on this elite street behind the main road. It had an enormous field in front of it which was used as a cricket ground by the neighborhood boys in the summer, and was transformed into a beautiful shimmering expanse of water during the monsoon. It was used as a dumping ground for garbage at all seasons. At the corner of our street, a thin alley led to a land of magic. This was the slum; the place where all our servants hailed from and led their fascinating lives. I loved running about there, tripping over stray chickens and tied up goats. Everyone knew me there; our family was well known all through the city, let alone that neighborhood. I was greeted with Parle toffee wherever I went.

We had nine servants. I used to keep count very carefully. It was a matter of pride, a thing to be boasted about throughout nursery and kindergarten. There were my father’s three henchmen – the brain, the brawn, and the lovable old man who ran errands. The rest of the servants fell under my mother’s jurisdiction. We had a maid to clean the house, a maid to wash the clothes, a maid to cook, a maid who would do household chores like making the beds, and a nanny. And then we had Sunita.

Sunita was ten years old when she joined us. She was two years elder to my brother, six to me. I don’t know in what capacity she was hired. Probably as an extra, to fill in for any absent maid. Or maybe she was the maid who did the household chores. I don’t remember and I suppose it doesn’t matter.

I do remember that she was always laughing. Always. I remember running about the streets and picking flowers with her. Sneaking into neighboring gardens and throwing stones at trees till they unloaded their precious bounty. We had mango trees, jackfruit trees, custard apple trees galore back at my home. But the fruit just became tastier when we had to crawl through barbed wire to get to our reward.

We were very good friends. Not best friends of course; that precious title was reserved for my brother all the way up to high school. Besides, you couldn’t possibly have a girl from the slum as a best friend. The very idea of it! But she was a good friend and a much appreciated ally against those dreaded monsters with their constant berating – the parents.

I remember Ma storming about furiously and demanding, “Who scribbled on these freshly painted walls?” Me – blubbering, copious cheeks wobbling – “Su….Sunita!” Ma – “Who played with water balloons inside the living room?” Me – with more assurance – “Sunita!” Ma – “Who broke Grammy’s precious vase?” Me – angrily – “It was Sunita! I saw her do it!”
And then I stood and watched as Ma slapped her. It was painful, and I was dying of guilt – but I won’t say I regretted it. It was better than facing Ma’s wrath myself. And then again, Sunita was from the slum. She wouldn’t mind a slap much would she? She didn’t. Afterwards, she winked at me. And she laughed.

We had lots of fun together – Sunita, my brother and I. We played such happy games! Hide and seek in a house that big was tons of fun. And when it was raining and we were confined to a few rooms, we devised our own games. I remember this one time on a particularly gloomy monsoon, my brother and I were having tickle wars. He was winning. Sunita came to my aid and helped me fight my him off. He didn’t like that much. And as I was his best friend, I didn’t like what he didn’t like. So we both turned on her and we tickle attacked! And then my brother pinned her down and I took off her frock. She didn’t even have proper underwear – just some cloth wrapped around her private parts. My brother and I found that hilarious. We took that off too. Such fun! Sunita scrambled to a corner and wrapped her arms and legs around her, trying to minimize exposure. And then she looked at us, and she laughed.

She got back at me for that though. Sunita was always a spirited person. A few days later, I was changing clothes and she slipped in through the balcony while I was in the nude and started laughing at me. For a six year old with a growing awareness of private parts, this was the height of mortification. I covered as up best as I could and started crying. Ma came and shooed Sunita away. In her eyes, peace was restored. But I needed my revenge. So after my parents left for work that day, I grabbed hold of the big bronze vase in the living room, emptied it of its contents, and then went and started hitting Sunita on the head with it. It made a resounding GONG every time I banged it against her head; a sound very gratifying to a six year old with vengeance on her mind. It did occur to me that I should probably stop, especially when a thin trickle of blood ran down her forehead. But she was from the slum right? They were used to pain. Besides, look at her! She was laughing. So I hit her some more and then got a bandaid and stuck it where it bled. And then we went looking for new flowers to fill the vase.

When Sunita turned 13, she told me she was going to get married! She proudly informed me that her future husbands name was Arjun and that his family had promised hers four cows and several goats as dowry. He was a lot older to her but she was of marriageable age and her family needed the dowry. She told me about her future dreams with shining eyes while she mopped the floor. I sat on the bed, wondering when I would get married. It sounded such fun. “Oh it is! It’s like playing house…but forever!” Woah. I listened wide eyed as she described what to me was heaven. We had tête-à-têtes aplenty. My brother was cut out of these conversations. Besides, he was too busy playing cricket nowadays anyway. Sunita and I looked at the boys on the field with disdain and tossed our heads; how childish of them. We were mature women of the world now.

Soon after, Sunita left. I saw her no more for a very long time. I searched for her in the slum but they said her husband had taken her to a different part of the city. So I went my way and forgot about her. I moved on. My brother and I were slowly starting to build the roots of our addiction towards books at that time. Our library grew; the cricket field and the magical land of the slums lay unattended.

It was years later, when I was nine, that I heard of Sunita again. It was a quarter to ten one wet monsoon night and I was cuddling with my parents when there was a knock on the door. It was some men from the slum. I recognized Sunita’s father, but the rest I did not know. They looked wet and rather angry. I hid behind my mother’s voluminous sari and peeked out. “Go back upstairs” Ma said. I ran to my brother and held his hand and gave Ma a defiant look. She caved. The men were talking with father. “They are looking for Sunita”, my brother said, “She ran away from her home! And they think she may have hidden somewhere in the compound.” Father went upstairs and brought down torches. They went outside. We made to follow them but Ma waved us back.

My brother took consolation by peeking out of windows and tracking the progression of the search party. I was peeved. There was a huge game of hide and seek going on and they wouldn’t let me play! I knew every nook and every cranny of the house. I would show them. All those times Sunita and I played. She was never very good though. Rather predictable. Her favorite hiding spot was on the top of the back staircase leading to the first floor from the outside. That staircase was never used and the grill door it led to has been locked for as long as I can remember. There was a jackfruit tree growing right beside the staircase and its thick, overgrown branches barred the approach of any enterprising adult looking to take a stroll that way. But as kids, we used to jump and crawl and reach the top landing. There was a small depression in the wall beside the door on the landing. Like a cubbyhole. If anyone squeezed themselves in there, they would be utterly invisible and virtually unreachable by the world below. But I had devised a trick to find out if someone was hiding there. On a hunch, I tried it now. I ran upstairs and grabbed a long-handled broom. Then I inserted the stick between the grills of the locked back door, aimed it at the cubbyhole, and poked.

The broom must have been longer than I expected, or I had misjudged the growth in my own strength since the last time I had done this, for instead of the tiny “ow” this maneuver was usually rewarded with, there was a loud started yelp from the cubbyhole. The search-party must have been nearby for they heard the noise over the sound of the rain and came rushing with flashlights and yells. They clambered over the branches and from my vantage point behind the back door, I saw one man, an especially nefarious looking middle-aged goon, drag out what looked like a shivering ball of hair and limbs. He hit her. I watched from behind the grill as he hit her again and again. I watched her take blow after blow with barely a whimper. I watched tears mix with rain mix with blood. I watched her precious Arjun as he griped her hair and started pulling her down the staircase, dragging her over branches. She made no struggle. Near the bottom she looked at me. Our eyes locked. And she laughed.