27-05-2019, 11:10 PM
But I did not. I had an urgent task to perform. I went to the bathroom and masturbated. As so often happens in our world it is the innocents who sneak out. I left like a thief, looking this way and that.
-
The stirring event that I witnessed was not a shock to me. My father was a womaniser. That was no secret. He has been the star of several scandals. My mother must have had it out with him in her earlier years but now she was reconciled to it. She rarely spoke to him and they slept in different rooms.
What was disturbing was that the affair should be happening under our roof and involving our maid with a thriving family. It did not look good. I felt deeply for my mother, a gentle and kindly teacher much loved by her pupils. If she comes to know of it even her resilience would not be enough. I thought about it in the days that followed.
I decided that my mother needs me.
--
For the next few days I watched the maid as she went about her duties. There was nothing, absolutely nothing to show that she was carrying on a spectacular affair with the master of the house. My father gave nothing away either.
They of course never spoke to each other and my father hardly ever looked in her direction. They were communicating with each other of that there was no doubt. That afternoon the maid was waiting for him with soup bowl and can with opener ready. When and how he sent his messages I know not.
--
A fortnight later on my return from college I noticed my mother's eyes red and swollen. I asked her if she was weeping. She said that she had missed her weekly oil bath and that was the reason her eyes were red. I was not convinced. Eyes can get congested if one does not take oil bath on the day it is due but they do not swell.
"Ma," I said holding her with both hands on her shoulders and looking into her eyes, "tell me what's your sorrow."
"Nothing, like I said I missed oil bath," she said. We were in eye contact. She tried to look away but some force impelled her to keep her eyes from turning.
I could see tears collecting and then pour down the cheeks. She fell into my open arms and sobbed.
"Mother darling, tell your son your troubles. I will see what can be done." We held tightly to each other. It is not in our culture for grown up sons to hug mothers this way. With daughters it would have been natural.
But she was in such distress and so much in need of support from her only friend that spontaneously we hugged.
After a while her sobbing subsided. Then she spoke.
"Your father," she said between sobs, "is carrying on with Taruni."
"Your maid?"
"Yes."
"How do you know?"
"I saw with my own eyes."
"How?"
"I came home early this afternoon because the school closed. I opened the door. I saw your father's shoes in the rack and also Taruni's slippers. I got suspicious. There has never been anything in their behaviour for me to suspect anything but one can never say with a man like your father. Silently I went to his bedroom. There was nothing there. I went to the kitchen and peeped in. And there I saw them united in sex." She broke down once again.
"You know what I did Visu?" she said amidst sobbing, "Like a thief escaping from a house I silently sneaked back to school. Your father has reduced me to that state." I held her and spoke endearing words into her ear as she wept. It was a while before she calmed down.
"What are you going to do?"
"Nothing."
"Nothing?"
"Yes, nothing." Suddenly her eyes went dry and glinted with determination. "I have thought about it and I have decided what my course of action should be. I will pretend that I know nothing. I cannot mend your father. That's for sure, and I can't lose the best servant maid I have ever had. I will accept the situation and move on." Psychologists have so far not written about the Indian mistress and her top servant woman. When they do, as they doubtless would, they may find it possible to explain the surprising response of my mother to the satisfaction of the unbelieving readers of this chronicle.
My mother quite spontaneously has found a way out of the impasse. She would need my support to move on.
-
The stirring event that I witnessed was not a shock to me. My father was a womaniser. That was no secret. He has been the star of several scandals. My mother must have had it out with him in her earlier years but now she was reconciled to it. She rarely spoke to him and they slept in different rooms.
What was disturbing was that the affair should be happening under our roof and involving our maid with a thriving family. It did not look good. I felt deeply for my mother, a gentle and kindly teacher much loved by her pupils. If she comes to know of it even her resilience would not be enough. I thought about it in the days that followed.
I decided that my mother needs me.
--
For the next few days I watched the maid as she went about her duties. There was nothing, absolutely nothing to show that she was carrying on a spectacular affair with the master of the house. My father gave nothing away either.
They of course never spoke to each other and my father hardly ever looked in her direction. They were communicating with each other of that there was no doubt. That afternoon the maid was waiting for him with soup bowl and can with opener ready. When and how he sent his messages I know not.
2
--
A fortnight later on my return from college I noticed my mother's eyes red and swollen. I asked her if she was weeping. She said that she had missed her weekly oil bath and that was the reason her eyes were red. I was not convinced. Eyes can get congested if one does not take oil bath on the day it is due but they do not swell.
"Ma," I said holding her with both hands on her shoulders and looking into her eyes, "tell me what's your sorrow."
"Nothing, like I said I missed oil bath," she said. We were in eye contact. She tried to look away but some force impelled her to keep her eyes from turning.
I could see tears collecting and then pour down the cheeks. She fell into my open arms and sobbed.
"Mother darling, tell your son your troubles. I will see what can be done." We held tightly to each other. It is not in our culture for grown up sons to hug mothers this way. With daughters it would have been natural.
But she was in such distress and so much in need of support from her only friend that spontaneously we hugged.
After a while her sobbing subsided. Then she spoke.
"Your father," she said between sobs, "is carrying on with Taruni."
"Your maid?"
"Yes."
"How do you know?"
"I saw with my own eyes."
"How?"
"I came home early this afternoon because the school closed. I opened the door. I saw your father's shoes in the rack and also Taruni's slippers. I got suspicious. There has never been anything in their behaviour for me to suspect anything but one can never say with a man like your father. Silently I went to his bedroom. There was nothing there. I went to the kitchen and peeped in. And there I saw them united in sex." She broke down once again.
"You know what I did Visu?" she said amidst sobbing, "Like a thief escaping from a house I silently sneaked back to school. Your father has reduced me to that state." I held her and spoke endearing words into her ear as she wept. It was a while before she calmed down.
"What are you going to do?"
"Nothing."
"Nothing?"
"Yes, nothing." Suddenly her eyes went dry and glinted with determination. "I have thought about it and I have decided what my course of action should be. I will pretend that I know nothing. I cannot mend your father. That's for sure, and I can't lose the best servant maid I have ever had. I will accept the situation and move on." Psychologists have so far not written about the Indian mistress and her top servant woman. When they do, as they doubtless would, they may find it possible to explain the surprising response of my mother to the satisfaction of the unbelieving readers of this chronicle.
My mother quite spontaneously has found a way out of the impasse. She would need my support to move on.
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