Adultery Who Watches The Watchmen (continued)

[samgreenvalley]

I was making the bed when the first knock came.


“Dara-ji! Dara-ji!” a voice called out.


Dara opened the door. Standing there was a man in his late forties, pot-bellied, wearing a sky-blue polo shirt tucked into belted trousers. Gold-rimmed glasses. A thick mustache. He looked like every society secretary I have ever seen—self-important and eager to assert authority.


“Ah, you are the new watchman,” the man said, looking past Dara and directly at me. His eyes lingered on my chest for a moment too long. “I am Mr. Sharma, the secretary of the RWA. And this is…”


“My wife, sir,” Dara said, standing straight. “Menaka.”


“Menaka,” Mr. Sharma repeated, as if tasting the word. “What a beautiful name. And you are from?”


“Mumbai,” I said, keeping my voice low and deferential.


“Ah, Mumbai. Film city. No wonder.” He smiled, revealing paan-stained teeth. “Well, Dara-ji, I hope you will be vigilant. We have had some issues with car thefts in the basement. And your wife—Menaka—she should be careful. The colony is safe, but there are… men who might mistake her politeness for something else.”


He said this while staring at my hips. I felt Dara’s hand tighten on the doorframe.


“We will be careful, sir,” Dara said.


“Good. Good.” Mr. Sharma stepped closer to me. “You know, Menaka-ji, we have a ladies’ kitty party every Thursday. You should come. Introduce yourself. Our wives are very welcoming. As long as you know your place.”


Know your place. The condescension dripped from his tongue like ghee from a hot paratha. I have been a memsaab my entire married life. Servants have called me memsaab. Maids have touched my feet. And here was this middle manager of a housing society, treating me like I was dirt because my husband wore a uniform.


I smiled sweetly. “I would love to, Sharma-ji. Thank you.”


He left, but not before giving me one last look. I closed the door and leaned against it.


“That man is going to be a problem,” I said.


Dara shrugged. “All secretaries are problems. But I need this job, Menaka. Please.”


Please. He said it so softly. So unlike the commanding, cocky watchman who had bent me over our dining table in Mumbai. Here, in this strange city, in this cramped quarter, he seemed smaller. Not just physically. I realized then that Dara had left his power behind. In Mumbai, he was the king of his little fiefdom—the watchman who knew every secret, who held keys to every door. Here, he was just another Nepali laborer.


I kissed him on his bald head. “I know. I will behave.”