Poppy . . . in her minimalist existence
The first time I saw her she stood on one side of the dining room, ramrod straight, like a dancer, her eyes downcast, staring at the floor. She twirled the tassel of her dopatta with her fingers in a continuous nervous motion. Her flawless skin was a couple of shades darker than cafe au lait, setting off her exquisitely chiseled features like that of a bronze statuette. Her eyes, when she did look up occasionally, were as dark as the night; but a brilliant twinkle lit them up every time she flashed her dazzling smile. Her long, jet-black hair was combed back and neatly tied in a thick braid. She was tall, much taller than an average local girl, and slender. She spoke in a soft intimidated voice, almost inaudible.
I was looking for a part-time help for my house and a neighbour was kind enough to have found the girl for me, although she warned me that the applicant was neither intelligent nor experienced, even a bit slow in the head; but that she was eager to learn. My daughter was coming for her usual summer break and I was more than desperate to get someone before she arrived.
One Friday morning her foster mother brought her to my house. The girl had lost her mother when she was a few months old. They called her Poppy. When I asked her if she knew the meaning of her name, she nodded and said, 'Phool' (flower) with a sheepish smile. As the interview progressed my hopes started to rise. Contrary to what I had been told, Poppy was smart enough to have worked in a garment factory, operating a heavy machine, before which she was a live-in help, according to her, in the house of 'the richest man in Bangladesh!'
There was something very childlike, very naive about her disposition. I instinctively liked her. Most probably still in her teens, her claim being 23 or 24, she was married without any children as yet, and lived with her husband and her widowed mother-in-law. She seemed content and happy with her life and often talked with my daughter about her home and family, especially her husband, the whole of that summer. Their bonding was instantaneous.
While Poppy would sweep the floor or dust the furniture, my daughter would be reclining in front of the TV in the family room, invariably striking up a chat-line. Topics would vary but would unmistakably revolve around marriage, husbands, mothers-in-law and, of course, babies. Not surprising, as both of them were recently married. My entry into the room was almost always treated as an intrusion; the two-way conversation, interjected with giggles, would abruptly become a soliloquy. I would only hear one-sided enquiries from my daughter and barely whispered answers from the other side. The near silent atmosphere would compel me to look for other venues.
With just me in the room, Poppy would metamorphose into an entirely different identity. It bothered, even irked me to some extent, that I made her feel so ill at ease. No matter how much I coaxed or pleaded with her, she would inadvertently withdraw herself into her shell but would continue with her work in total silence. Her answers were always in monosyllables, like 'ji' (yes), 'ji na' (no) or 'ji accha' (alright). Sometimes I pushed my luck a little further and threatened her in jest, 'Poppy, if you don't look up and talk to me you may not get to eat lunch today'. She would reward me with a quick look straight into my eyes accompanied by a bright smile, as though she found this hollow warning quite amusing. She ate like a bird and as far as she was concerned eating was a chore.
She was fast picking up on the household work and in no time I was forced to be more efficient in stocking up on Windex, Brasso, wood polish, etc, etc. I failed to understand way she came with such a shaky resume. She had a few harmless quirks, if you think they are quirks, but nothing that should prevent her from working for a living. Yes, she preferred to look down when talking (that too with certain individuals). So? She liked to arrange the floor cushions wrong side up. To her, the dull natural dyed batik was unattractive vis-a-vis the relatively bright flat coloured fabric on the underside of the cushions! The silver plates certainly looked better face down. And the napkins were always ironed and folded wrong side out. After trying to teach her the 'right' ways with little success I decided to relax and give up. These 'mistakes' meant nothing to her in her minimalist existence. It became a habit with me to 'fix' everything when I got back from work. It took me less than sixty seconds to put things 'right'. The napkins? Who cared, as long as they were washed and clean? Poppy's house must have been having much graver agendas than my silly silver plates put upside down. I realized how happy I was to have her as a help and a companion for my daughter.
One day, sometime during autumn, an incident changed the usual atmosphere in my house. When I came home from work Poppy opened the door. I was particularly tired that day and was craving for a foot rub. She looked disheveled, loose strands of hair all over her face, her eyes red and swollen. Quite obviously she hadn't showered and barely greeted me. I could hardly shut the front door behind me when Poppy suddenly dropped at my feet and, holding them tightly, broke into uncontrollable sobbing, accompanied by a barrage of incoherent mumbling of which I could make no sense. I was so taken aback, more anxious than anything else! Grasping her shoulders I tried hard to make her stand up, to no avail.
By then Bua, my elderly cook, had emerged from the kitchen. I looked at her quizzically and almost shouted in desperation for an explanation. She said, 'apnar akta shaban-dani bhainga felsey' (she has broken one of your soap dishes). I think my sigh of relief could have been easily heard by all of my nineteen neighbours! At that point I had no desire to know which soap dish had met its fatal end, the one that belonged to my daughter when she was a baby or the Venetian blue glass my mother-in-law had given me many, many years ago. Or was it the damned Wedgewood I had bought in a flea market somewhere in Yorkshire when I was a young bride? I treasure soap dishes. Please don't ask me why. My initial thought was that nobody was dead (except a wretched soap dish), nobody was electrocuted, no one had taken swigs of phenyl or harpic or windex intentionally or unintentionally and thankfully the house was not on fire God forbid! Instinctively, I gave her a hug once I managed to make her get up. "Poppy, kichu hobey na. Please, ar kanbi na' (it's alright Poppy. Please don't cry). The expression on her face was a strange mixture of shock and relief.
The next day Poppy seemed much at ease with me, even talked to me without being asked to. I wanted to know why she had been so frightened and agitated the day before. She looked at me with her doleful dark eyes and told me in a quiet voice that in the house she earlier worked for, the lady of the house was an angry woman. The servants were generally seen saying sorry to her anywhere from twenty to twenty five times, even if they had not committed any offence. One day Poppy had broken a glass, unintentionally. The offence was enough for the lady to deny any food to Poppy all day
As I lay down in bed that night I began to take a mental inventory of the various knick-knacks I have all over the house and started to dislike them. Useless, some expensive, some not so, dust gathering, inert objects just stand there, taking up precious apace and time, even demanding unconditional love and care. I realized how little they meant to me now.
She became pregnant and left me after a few months. While she was still with me, one evening she was sitting on the rug beside my rocker, watching TV with me while giving me a foot rub. Suddenly she said in all seriousness, 'Khalamma, amar zodi maiya hoi toile apnare diya dimu. Ar zodi seley hoi ami raikkha dimu.' To my stupid 'keno?' she said, 'Maiya houwa bala na; maiyader onek koshto. Amar motho zibon hoibo. Ami maiya chai na. Apni na niley Apu (my daugher) re diya dimu.'
I tried to put in a bit of my wisdom in the conversation and said, 'E rokom bolte hoi na Poppy. Meye-chhele shob shoman. Eshob bolle Allah raag korbe' She stood up, looked at me with a tint of anger in her eyes and said, 'Koruggya!'
She had her baby, a girl, and promptly called me to remind me of the one sided deal! Summer was here and time for my daughter to come visit me. Poppy brought her beautiful baby girl for us to see. I watched her, more radiant than ever, nurse her baby as we all sat in the family room having tea, moa and mishti. The girls were catching up on all that had happened in the past year. A photo session duly took place in the midst of much laughter, with each one of us getting to hold the baby for the shoot. It was fun afternoon.
As it was getting dark and time for Poppy to leave, her mood somewhat changed. She had a somber look in her eyes. In a quiet, defeated voice she said, 'Or baape abar biya korbo' (her father will marry again!).
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