My apartment in Mumbai looks straight into the apartment across the lane. My bedroom is reciprocal to their kitchen and living room, and because of that, I have an amazingly clear conception of the maid's life in my neighbor's house. The maid seems to live in the kitchen, where she cooks, obviously, and where she spends her "alone" time, does her personal grooming, washes her clothes, thinks about her day. She is a girl of about 18, and until a few weeks ago, I had never seen her outside of the kitchen, or outside of the apartment. She gets moving at 7 AM and does a few chores. Around 8:30 AM she finger combs her long thick hair, bringing it around the side of her neck and laying it flat down the front of her thin body. By 9 AM she is on to her face. She's washed it, and now she moisturizes, smoothing the lotion methodically down the sides of her face. She leads a quiet existence steeped in routine. Sometimes she sits at the window and watches the sleepy activity in our lane. We have never once made eye contact, nor have I seen her looking directly at my apartment although we are separated by only 20 feet.
If she does manage to steal glances, I wonder what she thinks about me. Eating cereal on my window seat, watching passersby, doing sun salutations, rushing out for work. Nothing very interesting, to be sure. But, I finally broke down and had curtains made. Not to block her out, but because I realized that if I know this much about her, surely she and the people who employ her must know as much about me.
These aren't just any curtains. It would have been expensive and a bit silly to have fancy curtains custom made for my windows--I don't know how long I'll stay, and you can't really take curtains with you. So, I channeled my inner interior designer, and became inspired. In general stores and corner grocery shops, there are huge sacks of rice and dry beans, similar to the bags of feed my mother buys for her horses and dogs. They are made of rough, brown burlap and stamped with the producer company's logo and design, in fuchsia and turquoise, green and yellow and cherry red. The logos are kitschy without meaning to be. One has an old rotary phone, another is festooned with doves, and my favorite pictures a balding man holding armfuls of money. "Premium quality," it announces in English. Export Quality Sooji. Goldfinch Hygenic Foods. Suyog Traders. Most of the other copy is in Hindi or Marathi.
I convinced a shop to sell me empty sacks for 25 cents a pop, and conceptualized my idea for several tailors who all thought I was out of my mind. I wanted them to cut the sacks in half and sew them into two long narrow Roman curtains. No go. Finally, we found a young boy who agreed to do it. It took two weeks--not sure why--but now, as I write, I have no idea what the maid is doing, and she has no idea I'm writing about her.
