Bharti gets frustrated when I ask her to clean the windows or cut the Papaya before she leaves. She says that she has a lot of work in other houses. However, Bharti never goes without playing her little game of wrapping my freshly washed clothes, neatly arranging them in different piles and waiting for my lethargic butt to get up and organise the newly bought cupboard by my landlord in Mumbai, Ram Uncle.
“It’s got a nice mirror, see,” Uncle declared as two seemingly malnourished boys dragged the cupboard inside my room. His wife, Ramini Aunty, dressed in a blue sari with a gajra around her thick black hair bun arrived with a pooja thali in hand, chanted a few mantras in Kannada, and rotated it for about three times She then offered the metallic silver door some white rice and a pinch of vermillion.
While Aunty is tall and curvy, with right bends at right ends, Uncle is short and potbellied. I’m told that he suffered a heart attack, just a few months before I moved to their place.