eFiction India eFiction India Vol.02 Issue.09 | Page 43

STORIES

42

NIGHT MAID
   JYOTSNAPHANIJA                                  

Jyothsna Phanija is a poet, short story
writer and article writer. Her poems
have appeared in Luvah, Tajmahal
Review, Kritya, Induswoman Writing,
etc. Her articles got published in
Subalternspeak, EDhvani, Barnolipi,
among others. Currently she is a doctoral candidate at the Department
of English Literature at English
& Foreign Languages University,
Hyderabad, India.

F

INGERS DIPPED IN rice powder
and detergent colours, she sketches
some stars in almost impossible intricate lines on the veranda. Pinkie
and Rahul have already slept. Her new
sari shimmers in the sheen of the moonlit
earthen lamp. The beads of the sari conceal
the untidy folds of her home. Wilting fragrance reaches her feet. She doesn’t know
if it is a flower or a tree. It is upright, like a
snake before Patel’s house.
Once her friend Gita told her that it’s
called night queen. “Night queen?”
Saroja repeated the name. “Yes. Queen of
the night.” “But how? Once snakes coil
around, the tree is invisible. Where do you
see snakes there?” “I don’t know. I just feel
them.” “I was telling him to look for a new
home. Your brother never listens.” She continued after a pause. “I never saw this tree
before. This kind of fragrance too, I never
smelt this in our village.” “You are scared
of that tree? It doesn’t harm. The fragrance
is just incomparable.”

sari focusses on some secret desires inside.
The frigid wind curls her dusky eyelashes;
wedding music from some distant speakers
beckons her dancing spirits; the fading light
from the last candles caresses her smiling
face. She waits, smells the jasmines from
her own plait. Hearing Raju’s footsteps,
she rushes inside. She embraces her children, also imitates the way they sleep. Raju
repeats her name several times while eating
the rice with potato curry, curd with mango
pickle. “Why did you cook this much rice?
You are becoming too crazy these days.
Just throwing my hard-earned money.” He
doesn’t get any answer. Saroja knew it. She
lost her appetite. Even for saris and jewels.

Saroja sips the fragrance now as the night
reaches its intoxicating elbows – the climax
of Saroja’s forgotten fairytales. The circles
around her eyes burn with the paraffin
fume.

In the early years of the marriage, Saroja
spent her days dreaming, living the lives
of their neighbouring women who were
awarded several titles like ‘the most obedient wife’, ‘the most innocent girl’ and so
on. She had a long plait, the longest in her
village. She was fairer among her in-laws
and their far relatives. She was ma