She slowly climbed off the bed, covering the bruised mounds of her dignity with one arm, while reaching for her torn off blouse with another. The sahib had left some time ago, for mem sahib had reached his office with the tiffin and wondered where he was.
After having successfully eradicated traces of the sahibs treachery, she reached for the broom and the mop, and proceeded to sweep the floor clean, as if it were her body. She did not have the luxury of tears, for the mem sahib had come back, all the while muttering about stupid bosses sending her poor husband for meetings. The memsahib cast an approving look at the spotless floor, and asked her what had gotten into her today.
She wondered what should happen if she did tell the memsahib what exactly had gotten into her. Tell her how she was needed by the sahib to satiate his manhood. It was fun to imagine an alternate universe, a place where her word would count against the sahib's.
But this was not an alternate universe, nor would her words matter. For who in the world would listen to a naukrani?
Terror filled her being, when she wondered about the repurcussions of a little slip of her tongue. She would lose everything. The word would spread about how the naukrani had forced herself on the sahib, nobody would give her work, for fear of husbands finally deviating from the path of nimrod. It would not do, finally living a life away from this, for the right to live without fear came with money, and money was something she was always short of.
After having worked to the memsahibs satisfaction, she was allowed to go. It was one now, and the sun was out in its yellow glory. She winced slightly as the sweat ran into the anger on her breasts, into the marks on her nipple. She did not however stop herself. Wadala madam had said she would cut her pay, should she be late.
After having methodically scrubbed her way out of nine mansions, she closed her eyes, letting the ache of her sore arms spread through her body. Feeling the day bear its mark on her suddenly heavy eyes, she hurried home. To another war.
The stench of alcohol greeted her at home. She ignored her husbands slurs, and proceeded to make the dal and three rotis. Two for him, one for her. They were getting low on the flour, she noted. That was another 57 rupees gone from her dwindling savings.
Night cast her inky cloak on the prussian sky. They sat down to eat, she and her husband. Two minutes of teeth pressing into roti soaked in dal was suddenly replaced by a hand swiftly slicing through the air, on to her cheek. The dal in her mouth sprayed onto the floor, the impact of the drunk hand making an impression on her cheek. The dal you see, had been undersalted.
He stalked out of the house, while she proceeded to reach for the end of her pallu, to wipe the spray of dal.
An hour passed, with solitude her only companion. Her husband made an entry into the house an hour later, walking swiftly into the bedroom, a little drunk than usual. He looked back, his cruel mouth twisting into a smirk, as she quietly got up from her position on the floor. She followed him, like a dog being dragged to die. History was repeating itself, like every night.
History was leading the dog.
