The Child Bride

The British Museum

I have been shorthanded for days and have had to do all the chopping, cooking and cleaning, not to mention grinding the various spices, and have worn myself almost to a shadow. People have promised to find me a servant, but the few who have come to work have proved unreliable. My apartment is inside a rambling mansion in the old part of town not far from Gangauri Gate, and from my very window one can see Hawa Mahal with its many tiers of tiny, lattice-covered balconies. I quite enjoy the view of the hills and the distant Amber Fort, and besides, the rent is most reasonable; my husband has a decent job at one of the royal government offices nearby. There are so many dwellings in this huge haveli that I don’t even know most of the residents.

Yesterday, the woman who grinds wheat came over. “Madam, do you need a maid?”

I was chopping vegetables at the time, so I set the boti with its curved blade aside and came to the door. “Of course I do. Where is she?”

“If you are ready to engage the person right away, I will go and fetch her, but she is unfamiliar with your style of cooking.”

“That is not a problem. She can be trained in what needs to be done.”

Minutes ticked by, then an hour passed, but still there was no sign of the messenger. I had almost given up hope when I heard a rustle at the doorway and saw her escorting a girl into my kitchen. The visitor was no more than sixteen and wore a long skirt traditional to the region but was heavily veiled. In fact the filmy scarf draped over her head came down to the bosom. What little I could see were her pale hands and feet.

“Here is your maid, Madam.”

I stared at the newcomer with serious misgivings. She seemed too young to shoulder the burden of the myriad chores around the house, not to speak of helping me look after my children.

“She appears rather inexperienced. Will she be able to do the work required? Why is she so covered up? There are no men at home at this time of day,” I said.

The woman nudged her youthful companion. “You can remove your veil; there are no males here.”

The teenager parted her chiffon mask with two fingers, baring one eye, and stared at me. Reassured, she slowly raised it till it hung loose around her face.

I must confess that I gazed at her in amazement. This region abounds in beauties, but I had never come across anyone so attractive. The good looks of some of the queens are legendary and the poise, gait, and appearance of the village women striking, but this girl was astonishing to look at. Her complexion was as pale as a champa flower and lips a deep pink, through which she gave a shy smile, baring even teeth.

“What are you staring at?” the old woman said.

I composed myself and wiped my hands. “She seems so young and untouched and her palms are so delicate, she has obviously not worked as a domestic aide before. Will she really be able to do housework?”

“Yes, I can most certainly do what is necessary. Just let me know what you want done.”

“Water needs to be brought up from the well downstairs, our pots and dishes must be scrubbed clean, the floors must be swept and mopped, the usual sort of chores, but they must be done my way. For instance, the brass vessels must be polished till they sparkle and water for cooking must be filtered through clean, heavy cloth. We Bengali housewives tend to be a little fussy.”

She nodded her head. “I will be able to do everything that you require.”

“What is your name?” I said.

“Kesar.”

The appellation common enough in Rajasthan was befitting, as her lips and fingertips were as pink as the...