24-09-2025, 04:38 PM
The next Sunday, Vinod woke before sunrise. He lay on his narrow cot, staring at the white ceiling as the fan spun lazily above him, stirring the already-warm air. He tried to quiet his mind, but thoughts kept rushing in. What if she changed her mind? What if she told him to leave? Or, worse, what if she smiled at him with pity, and returned the envelope?
He dressed carefully: plain blue t-shirt, black track pants, and a pair of sandals he’d scrubbed the night before. He combed his hair, brushed his teeth until his gums tingled, and wiped his glasses three times on his old handkerchief. Then, with trembling hands, he took the envelope from his desk drawer and checked the bills once more. Ten new hundred-rupee notes, edges aligned, no creases.
At 6:58, Vinod stood outside Sharmi’s gate. He’d arrived too early. The air was thick with the smell of last night’s rain and the faint, sugary stink of gulmohar flowers from down the lane. He waited, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, eyes flicking up to the house every few seconds. His hands clutched the envelope so tight that the corners went soft.
At 7:05, a faint thud sounded from inside, followed by slow, purposeful footsteps. The main door opened. Sharmi stepped out, her hair still wet from the shower and falling over one shoulder. She wore a loose white kurta and black leggings. Her eyes met his, unreadable.
“Morning,” she said, voice flat.
“Good—good morning,” Vinod replied, forcing himself not to stammer.
Sharmi’s gaze moved to the envelope in his hand. She didn’t reach for it. Instead, she waited, silent, making him take the first step. Vinod swallowed and held the envelope out, both hands, arms extended like a gift to a goddess.
Sharmi took it. She didn’t thank him. She opened it in front of him, thumbed through the notes, then folded the envelope in half and slipped it into the pocket of her kurta. She glanced back at Vinod, expression blank.
“Come in,” she said, and turned away. Vinod followed, the familiar jolt of nerves shooting through his legs.
The porch was already swept. He’d done it yesterday, as practice. The red tiles gleamed, but a few yellow leaves had blown in overnight. He made a mental note to pick them up.
Inside, the living room was neat and smelled like sandalwood. Sharmi sat on the sofa, one knee crossed over the other, and waited for Vinod to stand in front of her. She gestured to a stool. He sat, perching on the edge, hands in his lap.
She pulled out a small spiral notebook, opened to a page covered in neat writing.
“Review,” Sharmi said. She pointed at the list. “Porch. You swept, but you didn’t clean under the shoe rack. The corner was dusty. See?” She raised her eyes to his.
Vinod nodded. “I’m sorry. I’ll do better.”
“Garden,” she continued. “You watered everything, but you missed the rosemary. It was drooping.”
Again, Vinod nodded. His heart raced, thumping hard in his chest. He wanted to explain, to say that the rosemary was behind the hibiscus and maybe he didn’t see it, but he knew it would sound like an excuse.
“Groceries,” she said, flipping the page. “You got everything except the right brand of rice. I only use India Gate Basmati. Please remember.”
“Sorry,” Vinod whispered, voice shaky.
Sharmi closed the notebook. “You did well, but you need to be more careful. I expect improvement next week.”
Vinod’s face burned. But when Sharmi nodded, just once, a small movement that said “good enough,” he felt relief flood through him. He looked at her hands, then at her feet, then at her face. She was not smiling, but her eyes were a little softer.
“I will do better,” he said, meaning it.
Sharmi stood, walked past him, and paused in the hallway. “Laundry is in the basket by the bathroom,” she said. “Porch needs to be swept again. And water the plants. All of them.” She pointed at the notebook. “No mistakes.”
Vinod stood, legs shaking. “Yes. I’ll get started right now.”
He started for the porch, but turned back. “Do you want tea?” he asked, unsure if he was supposed to.
Sharmi considered this. “Yes. Two spoons of sugar, no milk.”
Vinod’s heart thudded. “I’ll bring it.”
He hurried to the kitchen, careful not to bang the kettle or drop any spoons. As he waited for the water to boil, he peeked into the garden. The rosemary plant did look wilted. He touched its leaves with gentle fingers, feeling a pulse of guilt and then a burst of determination. He would not make the same mistake twice.
Back in the living room, Sharmi accepted the tea without a word. She sipped, her eyes never leaving Vinod as he dusted the shelf under the window and picked up the stray leaves from the mat. Every time she looked at him, his heart beat faster.
He finished the chores, brought the laundry basket to the back verandah, and returned to find Sharmi still sitting on the sofa. She closed her notebook and stood.
“Next Sunday, same time,” she said. “If you want to do more, tell me before Saturday.”
Vinod nodded, dizzy with happiness. “Thank you,” he said, and almost added “ma’am” but caught himself.
Sharmi watched him for a moment, then walked him to the door. “Don’t forget the envelope,” she said. “Every week. In cash.”
He agreed, burning with embarrassment but also something like pride. He left her house feeling lighter, but also hungry for more—more tasks, more rules, more of her attention.
When he got home, he marked next Sunday on his calendar. Then he sat at his desk, staring at the clean white envelope he’d set aside for the next payment, and counted the days.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
All week, Vinod counted down the days to Sunday. He finished every office task by Wednesday, did extra overtime, and lined up his own house so perfectly that even his mother would not find a single missed spot. By Saturday night, he could barely sleep.
Sunday morning, he stood at Sharmi’s gate at exactly 7:00 a.m., envelope in hand. The notes inside were fresh and flat. He rehearsed his lines: "Good morning. I’m ready. What would you like me to do today?" But when the door opened, the words got stuck in his throat.
Sharmi wore a dark blue T-shirt with faded jeans. Her hair was tied back in a neat ponytail. She took the envelope wordlessly, checked the contents, then tucked it into her back pocket. She didn’t bother to invite him in—just pointed at the garden.
"Start with the porch. There’s dust under the shoe rack again. Then sweep the side yard, and water every plant, not just the ones that look thirsty."
Vinod nodded and set to work. The broom was already leaning against the wall, as if she had known he’d come. He crouched and swept slowly, making sure to push every line of dirt into perfect rows. He got down on hands and knees to clean under the shoe rack, ignoring the sharp edge that bit into his thumb. Sweat dripped down his nose, making the tile slick.
From the living room window, Sharmi watched him work. She didn’t smile, but every few minutes she’d tap the glass to point out a missed corner, or a speck of leaf he’d overlooked. Vinod hurried to correct each mistake.
When the porch gleamed, Sharmi opened the front door and tossed a plastic dustpan at his feet. "Good. Now the shelves in the hall. Top to bottom. Take out everything and wipe it down. Don’t break anything."
Vinod scurried inside, hands still gritty from the broom. The hall was lined with open shelves: books, glass figurines, old family photos. He moved each item carefully, arranging them on the floor, then wiped the wood with a damp cloth. The higher shelves made his arms ache, but he didn’t slow down. He wanted to impress her, to show that he could keep up.
As he finished the bottom shelf, Sharmi appeared beside him, arms crossed. She looked at the items he’d lined up on the floor.
"Put them back the way you found them," she said, voice level. "If you move even one photo, I’ll know."
Vinod’s hands trembled as he replaced each item. The glass elephant, the fading picture of a boy on a tricycle, the tiny brass bell that left green dust on his fingers. He put the bell back twice, sure it was crooked the first time.
Sharmi inspected the shelf, running her finger along the wood. She nodded once, then moved on.
Next was laundry. She led him to the back veranda, where a plastic basket overflowed with clothes. There were towels, bedsheets, and a pile of her own clothes—t-shirts, jeans, and at the very bottom, a tangled mess of bras and underwear. Vinod’s mouth went dry.
"Fold everything. Sort by type. If you mix up the sets, you’ll do it all again," Sharmi said. She watched for a moment, then left him alone with the basket.
Vinod sat cross-legged on the floor, hands shaking. He started with the towels, smoothing each one and stacking them in neat piles. Then the bedsheets, which he folded along the seams like origami. When he reached Sharmi’s clothes, he tried not to think too hard, but every soft shirt and faded pair of leggings made his heart race.
The underwear was the hardest. He picked up a lacy black bra, the strap slipping through his fingers. He folded it into a tight square, then placed it at the bottom of the stack. Each time he touched one of her panties, he blushed, hoping no one could see the heat rising in his face. But Sharmi was there at the kitchen window, arms folded, eyes locked on him.
She waited until he finished the entire basket. Then she came over, picked up a single bra from the pile, and held it up.
"You missed a stain," she said, matter-of-fact. "Do it again."
Vinod bowed his head. "I’m sorry. I’ll wash it right now."
He took the bra to the sink and scrubbed the spot with soap, rinsed, and wrung it out. His hands shook the whole time. When he finished, he returned to the basket, folded everything again, and arranged it even neater than before.
Sharmi checked every stack. This time, she found nothing wrong.
"You learn fast," she said. Her mouth twitched, almost a smile.
Vinod wanted to thank her, but he bit his tongue. He was not sure if he was allowed.
She sent him to the backyard next. There was a row of empty pots stacked against the wall and a scattering of torn wrappers and dried leaves in the dirt. Vinod spent an hour picking up every bit of trash, scbanging mud from the cracks, and arranging the pots in a perfect line. Sweat soaked his shirt and stung his eyes.
Halfway through, he heard Sharmi’s voice from behind.
"Why are you so careful?" she asked. She stood at the back steps, mug of coffee in hand.
Vinod turned, wiping his forehead with his sleeve. "I just—want to do it right. For you."
She sipped her coffee. "You don’t need to be perfect. But you should listen. If I say I want something, I want it done exactly that way. Not more, not less."
Vinod nodded, cheeks burning. "Yes. Understood."
She pointed at a single, crushed cigarette butt by the fence. "That too," she said, then walked away.
Vinod picked it up, pinched it between two fingers, and threw it into the trash. He double-checked the yard, then stood waiting, hands behind his back.
Sharmi came out a minute later. She looked over the work, then at Vinod. "Good," she said. "You’re done for now. You can wait on the porch if you want."
Vinod sat on the edge of the step, heart thudding. He stared at the lines of dirt between the tiles, thinking about Sharmi’s voice. He replayed every word she’d said. The only thing that mattered was that, for a moment, she had almost smiled.
When she called him back inside, he jumped up and hurried to the door. Sharmi was standing in the hallway, holding a grocery list.
"Can you get these tomorrow?" she asked. "If you forget anything, don’t come back next week."
He took the list, careful not to let his hand shake. "I’ll get everything," he promised.
Sharmi’s eyes lingered on him for a second. She didn’t say anything, but the look was enough.
Vinod left her house, head spinning. The smell of soap and wet earth clung to his hands. As he walked home, he found himself glancing down at his palms, half-expecting them to still be touching her clothes.
He couldn’t wait for next Sunday.
The next Sunday was hotter than usual. Vinod arrived at Sharmi’s gate at 6:55, sweat already dampening his shirt under the armpits. He waited, envelope in hand, until exactly seven, then knocked.
Sharmi opened the door after a few seconds. She wore a loose olive-green dress, hair pulled into a messy bun. She took the envelope, counted the money in front of him as always, then led him to the living room.
“Shelves again. You missed a streak on the glass last time,” she said.
Vinod got to work. He moved each figurine and photo with care, wiped the glass with a new cloth, then polished it dry. He checked each surface twice, afraid to leave even a smudge. Sharmi watched from the doorway, arms folded tight.
“Good,” she said, after a long silence. She moved on to the kitchen.
Vinod followed, head lowered. Sharmi pointed at the dining table, where a basket of laundry sat, waiting.
“Fold these,” she said. “Sort by type and color. Underwear goes at the bottom of the pile.”
Vinod nodded and sat cross-legged on the floor. He folded each towel, t-shirt, and sock with trembling fingers. The pile grew neat and straight. When he reached her underwear—soft, bright, smelling faintly of rose detergent—his hands shook so hard that one slipped and dropped a pair on the tile.
He scrambled to pick it up. Sharmi said nothing, but watched him with a calm, steady stare.
When the basket was empty, Vinod looked up at her, silently asking if it was good enough.
Sharmi walked over, lifted the stack, and inspected it from all angles. She ran her hand over the folded clothes, then set them back down. She picked up one of her bras, checked the lace for stains, and returned it to the bottom of the pile.
“Better,” she said. “You’re improving.”
Vinod felt his heart swell, even though the words were simple. He wanted to thank her, to say something, but held back.
Sharmi led him to the backyard. She pointed at the line of flower pots.
“Arrange them by height. No gaps,” she said.
Vinod worked in the sun, sweat running down his spine. He moved each pot, heavy and rough, scbanging the bottoms against the concrete until every rim lined up exactly. He checked the row three times, squatting at eye level to make sure it was perfect.
When he finished, Sharmi walked the length of the pots, arms behind her back like a teacher at inspection. She nodded, then turned to Vinod.
“That’s all,” she said. “You can go.”
Vinod felt a surge of relief and pride. He wanted to thank her, to ask if he’d see her next week, but as he opened his mouth, she raised her hand.
“Wait,” Sharmi said. Her eyes pinned him in place. “From now on, you must ask permission before you speak to me. Understand?”
Vinod’s mouth went dry. For a second, he didn’t move. Then he nodded, quick and eager.
“Yes,” he said, then remembered. “May I say yes?”
Sharmi smiled, just a twitch at the corner of her mouth. “You may.”
Vinod’s whole body buzzed. “Yes, ma’am.”
She nodded, pleased. “See you next week. Bring the envelope.”
He turned to go, dizzy with the new rule. At the gate, he paused, waiting for her to say something else. But Sharmi just stood there, door open, watching him with that same calm authority.
As he walked home, Vinod replayed every second in his head. The chores. Her voice. The new rule. His hands still smelled of soap and her detergent, and every step felt lighter than the last.
He couldn’t wait to pay again, and again, and again.
He dressed carefully: plain blue t-shirt, black track pants, and a pair of sandals he’d scrubbed the night before. He combed his hair, brushed his teeth until his gums tingled, and wiped his glasses three times on his old handkerchief. Then, with trembling hands, he took the envelope from his desk drawer and checked the bills once more. Ten new hundred-rupee notes, edges aligned, no creases.
At 6:58, Vinod stood outside Sharmi’s gate. He’d arrived too early. The air was thick with the smell of last night’s rain and the faint, sugary stink of gulmohar flowers from down the lane. He waited, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, eyes flicking up to the house every few seconds. His hands clutched the envelope so tight that the corners went soft.
At 7:05, a faint thud sounded from inside, followed by slow, purposeful footsteps. The main door opened. Sharmi stepped out, her hair still wet from the shower and falling over one shoulder. She wore a loose white kurta and black leggings. Her eyes met his, unreadable.
“Morning,” she said, voice flat.
“Good—good morning,” Vinod replied, forcing himself not to stammer.
Sharmi’s gaze moved to the envelope in his hand. She didn’t reach for it. Instead, she waited, silent, making him take the first step. Vinod swallowed and held the envelope out, both hands, arms extended like a gift to a goddess.
Sharmi took it. She didn’t thank him. She opened it in front of him, thumbed through the notes, then folded the envelope in half and slipped it into the pocket of her kurta. She glanced back at Vinod, expression blank.
“Come in,” she said, and turned away. Vinod followed, the familiar jolt of nerves shooting through his legs.
The porch was already swept. He’d done it yesterday, as practice. The red tiles gleamed, but a few yellow leaves had blown in overnight. He made a mental note to pick them up.
Inside, the living room was neat and smelled like sandalwood. Sharmi sat on the sofa, one knee crossed over the other, and waited for Vinod to stand in front of her. She gestured to a stool. He sat, perching on the edge, hands in his lap.
She pulled out a small spiral notebook, opened to a page covered in neat writing.
“Review,” Sharmi said. She pointed at the list. “Porch. You swept, but you didn’t clean under the shoe rack. The corner was dusty. See?” She raised her eyes to his.
Vinod nodded. “I’m sorry. I’ll do better.”
“Garden,” she continued. “You watered everything, but you missed the rosemary. It was drooping.”
Again, Vinod nodded. His heart raced, thumping hard in his chest. He wanted to explain, to say that the rosemary was behind the hibiscus and maybe he didn’t see it, but he knew it would sound like an excuse.
“Groceries,” she said, flipping the page. “You got everything except the right brand of rice. I only use India Gate Basmati. Please remember.”
“Sorry,” Vinod whispered, voice shaky.
Sharmi closed the notebook. “You did well, but you need to be more careful. I expect improvement next week.”
Vinod’s face burned. But when Sharmi nodded, just once, a small movement that said “good enough,” he felt relief flood through him. He looked at her hands, then at her feet, then at her face. She was not smiling, but her eyes were a little softer.
“I will do better,” he said, meaning it.
Sharmi stood, walked past him, and paused in the hallway. “Laundry is in the basket by the bathroom,” she said. “Porch needs to be swept again. And water the plants. All of them.” She pointed at the notebook. “No mistakes.”
Vinod stood, legs shaking. “Yes. I’ll get started right now.”
He started for the porch, but turned back. “Do you want tea?” he asked, unsure if he was supposed to.
Sharmi considered this. “Yes. Two spoons of sugar, no milk.”
Vinod’s heart thudded. “I’ll bring it.”
He hurried to the kitchen, careful not to bang the kettle or drop any spoons. As he waited for the water to boil, he peeked into the garden. The rosemary plant did look wilted. He touched its leaves with gentle fingers, feeling a pulse of guilt and then a burst of determination. He would not make the same mistake twice.
Back in the living room, Sharmi accepted the tea without a word. She sipped, her eyes never leaving Vinod as he dusted the shelf under the window and picked up the stray leaves from the mat. Every time she looked at him, his heart beat faster.
He finished the chores, brought the laundry basket to the back verandah, and returned to find Sharmi still sitting on the sofa. She closed her notebook and stood.
“Next Sunday, same time,” she said. “If you want to do more, tell me before Saturday.”
Vinod nodded, dizzy with happiness. “Thank you,” he said, and almost added “ma’am” but caught himself.
Sharmi watched him for a moment, then walked him to the door. “Don’t forget the envelope,” she said. “Every week. In cash.”
He agreed, burning with embarrassment but also something like pride. He left her house feeling lighter, but also hungry for more—more tasks, more rules, more of her attention.
When he got home, he marked next Sunday on his calendar. Then he sat at his desk, staring at the clean white envelope he’d set aside for the next payment, and counted the days.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
All week, Vinod counted down the days to Sunday. He finished every office task by Wednesday, did extra overtime, and lined up his own house so perfectly that even his mother would not find a single missed spot. By Saturday night, he could barely sleep.
Sunday morning, he stood at Sharmi’s gate at exactly 7:00 a.m., envelope in hand. The notes inside were fresh and flat. He rehearsed his lines: "Good morning. I’m ready. What would you like me to do today?" But when the door opened, the words got stuck in his throat.
Sharmi wore a dark blue T-shirt with faded jeans. Her hair was tied back in a neat ponytail. She took the envelope wordlessly, checked the contents, then tucked it into her back pocket. She didn’t bother to invite him in—just pointed at the garden.
"Start with the porch. There’s dust under the shoe rack again. Then sweep the side yard, and water every plant, not just the ones that look thirsty."
Vinod nodded and set to work. The broom was already leaning against the wall, as if she had known he’d come. He crouched and swept slowly, making sure to push every line of dirt into perfect rows. He got down on hands and knees to clean under the shoe rack, ignoring the sharp edge that bit into his thumb. Sweat dripped down his nose, making the tile slick.
From the living room window, Sharmi watched him work. She didn’t smile, but every few minutes she’d tap the glass to point out a missed corner, or a speck of leaf he’d overlooked. Vinod hurried to correct each mistake.
When the porch gleamed, Sharmi opened the front door and tossed a plastic dustpan at his feet. "Good. Now the shelves in the hall. Top to bottom. Take out everything and wipe it down. Don’t break anything."
Vinod scurried inside, hands still gritty from the broom. The hall was lined with open shelves: books, glass figurines, old family photos. He moved each item carefully, arranging them on the floor, then wiped the wood with a damp cloth. The higher shelves made his arms ache, but he didn’t slow down. He wanted to impress her, to show that he could keep up.
As he finished the bottom shelf, Sharmi appeared beside him, arms crossed. She looked at the items he’d lined up on the floor.
"Put them back the way you found them," she said, voice level. "If you move even one photo, I’ll know."
Vinod’s hands trembled as he replaced each item. The glass elephant, the fading picture of a boy on a tricycle, the tiny brass bell that left green dust on his fingers. He put the bell back twice, sure it was crooked the first time.
Sharmi inspected the shelf, running her finger along the wood. She nodded once, then moved on.
Next was laundry. She led him to the back veranda, where a plastic basket overflowed with clothes. There were towels, bedsheets, and a pile of her own clothes—t-shirts, jeans, and at the very bottom, a tangled mess of bras and underwear. Vinod’s mouth went dry.
"Fold everything. Sort by type. If you mix up the sets, you’ll do it all again," Sharmi said. She watched for a moment, then left him alone with the basket.
Vinod sat cross-legged on the floor, hands shaking. He started with the towels, smoothing each one and stacking them in neat piles. Then the bedsheets, which he folded along the seams like origami. When he reached Sharmi’s clothes, he tried not to think too hard, but every soft shirt and faded pair of leggings made his heart race.
The underwear was the hardest. He picked up a lacy black bra, the strap slipping through his fingers. He folded it into a tight square, then placed it at the bottom of the stack. Each time he touched one of her panties, he blushed, hoping no one could see the heat rising in his face. But Sharmi was there at the kitchen window, arms folded, eyes locked on him.
She waited until he finished the entire basket. Then she came over, picked up a single bra from the pile, and held it up.
"You missed a stain," she said, matter-of-fact. "Do it again."
Vinod bowed his head. "I’m sorry. I’ll wash it right now."
He took the bra to the sink and scrubbed the spot with soap, rinsed, and wrung it out. His hands shook the whole time. When he finished, he returned to the basket, folded everything again, and arranged it even neater than before.
Sharmi checked every stack. This time, she found nothing wrong.
"You learn fast," she said. Her mouth twitched, almost a smile.
Vinod wanted to thank her, but he bit his tongue. He was not sure if he was allowed.
She sent him to the backyard next. There was a row of empty pots stacked against the wall and a scattering of torn wrappers and dried leaves in the dirt. Vinod spent an hour picking up every bit of trash, scbanging mud from the cracks, and arranging the pots in a perfect line. Sweat soaked his shirt and stung his eyes.
Halfway through, he heard Sharmi’s voice from behind.
"Why are you so careful?" she asked. She stood at the back steps, mug of coffee in hand.
Vinod turned, wiping his forehead with his sleeve. "I just—want to do it right. For you."
She sipped her coffee. "You don’t need to be perfect. But you should listen. If I say I want something, I want it done exactly that way. Not more, not less."
Vinod nodded, cheeks burning. "Yes. Understood."
She pointed at a single, crushed cigarette butt by the fence. "That too," she said, then walked away.
Vinod picked it up, pinched it between two fingers, and threw it into the trash. He double-checked the yard, then stood waiting, hands behind his back.
Sharmi came out a minute later. She looked over the work, then at Vinod. "Good," she said. "You’re done for now. You can wait on the porch if you want."
Vinod sat on the edge of the step, heart thudding. He stared at the lines of dirt between the tiles, thinking about Sharmi’s voice. He replayed every word she’d said. The only thing that mattered was that, for a moment, she had almost smiled.
When she called him back inside, he jumped up and hurried to the door. Sharmi was standing in the hallway, holding a grocery list.
"Can you get these tomorrow?" she asked. "If you forget anything, don’t come back next week."
He took the list, careful not to let his hand shake. "I’ll get everything," he promised.
Sharmi’s eyes lingered on him for a second. She didn’t say anything, but the look was enough.
Vinod left her house, head spinning. The smell of soap and wet earth clung to his hands. As he walked home, he found himself glancing down at his palms, half-expecting them to still be touching her clothes.
He couldn’t wait for next Sunday.
The next Sunday was hotter than usual. Vinod arrived at Sharmi’s gate at 6:55, sweat already dampening his shirt under the armpits. He waited, envelope in hand, until exactly seven, then knocked.
Sharmi opened the door after a few seconds. She wore a loose olive-green dress, hair pulled into a messy bun. She took the envelope, counted the money in front of him as always, then led him to the living room.
“Shelves again. You missed a streak on the glass last time,” she said.
Vinod got to work. He moved each figurine and photo with care, wiped the glass with a new cloth, then polished it dry. He checked each surface twice, afraid to leave even a smudge. Sharmi watched from the doorway, arms folded tight.
“Good,” she said, after a long silence. She moved on to the kitchen.
Vinod followed, head lowered. Sharmi pointed at the dining table, where a basket of laundry sat, waiting.
“Fold these,” she said. “Sort by type and color. Underwear goes at the bottom of the pile.”
Vinod nodded and sat cross-legged on the floor. He folded each towel, t-shirt, and sock with trembling fingers. The pile grew neat and straight. When he reached her underwear—soft, bright, smelling faintly of rose detergent—his hands shook so hard that one slipped and dropped a pair on the tile.
He scrambled to pick it up. Sharmi said nothing, but watched him with a calm, steady stare.
When the basket was empty, Vinod looked up at her, silently asking if it was good enough.
Sharmi walked over, lifted the stack, and inspected it from all angles. She ran her hand over the folded clothes, then set them back down. She picked up one of her bras, checked the lace for stains, and returned it to the bottom of the pile.
“Better,” she said. “You’re improving.”
Vinod felt his heart swell, even though the words were simple. He wanted to thank her, to say something, but held back.
Sharmi led him to the backyard. She pointed at the line of flower pots.
“Arrange them by height. No gaps,” she said.
Vinod worked in the sun, sweat running down his spine. He moved each pot, heavy and rough, scbanging the bottoms against the concrete until every rim lined up exactly. He checked the row three times, squatting at eye level to make sure it was perfect.
When he finished, Sharmi walked the length of the pots, arms behind her back like a teacher at inspection. She nodded, then turned to Vinod.
“That’s all,” she said. “You can go.”
Vinod felt a surge of relief and pride. He wanted to thank her, to ask if he’d see her next week, but as he opened his mouth, she raised her hand.
“Wait,” Sharmi said. Her eyes pinned him in place. “From now on, you must ask permission before you speak to me. Understand?”
Vinod’s mouth went dry. For a second, he didn’t move. Then he nodded, quick and eager.
“Yes,” he said, then remembered. “May I say yes?”
Sharmi smiled, just a twitch at the corner of her mouth. “You may.”
Vinod’s whole body buzzed. “Yes, ma’am.”
She nodded, pleased. “See you next week. Bring the envelope.”
He turned to go, dizzy with the new rule. At the gate, he paused, waiting for her to say something else. But Sharmi just stood there, door open, watching him with that same calm authority.
As he walked home, Vinod replayed every second in his head. The chores. Her voice. The new rule. His hands still smelled of soap and her detergent, and every step felt lighter than the last.
He couldn’t wait to pay again, and again, and again.
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