One Amazing Thing (13 page)

If Mrs. Balan had curbed her temper, sent Nirmala downstairs, and spoken quietly with Ravi, the situation might have been resolved. But seeing her beloved son’s lips just a few inches from those of her maid drove strategy from her mind. She strode forward and delivered a stinging slap to Nirmala’s cheek, screaming at the cringing girl for being a conniving hussy. She would have hit Nirmala again if Ravi had not grabbed his mother’s wrists and told her to pull herself together.

Mrs. Balan went a little crazy then, calling Nirmala worse names, threatening to make sure everyone in her home village knew how she had repaid Mrs. Balan’s many kindnesses with treachery. Then she turned on Ravi. Had he lost all sense of proportion, living in America? Had he forgotten that servants needed to be kept in their place? Couldn’t he see that a low-class girl like Nirmala had probably been planning all along to trap him?

Ravi made threats of his own, delivered in a quiet voice. If his mother fired Nirmala, he would return to America. She would never see him again.

Faced with this ultimatum, Mrs. Balan was forced to allow Nirmala to remain. The defeat confined her to bed for several days. She rose a different woman, older and frailer. At first she avoided her son. But when he apologized for the harshness of his words (though he did not take them back), she wept and embraced him. In a few days, things seemed to have returned to normal in the Balan household.
Nirmala carried out her regular duties, even accompanying Mrs. Balan when she went shopping.

“The lessons were stopped, of course,” Mrs. Veerappan told Mrs. Nayar as they both underwent Hibiscus Oil Hair Therapy. “But in a big house like that, is it difficult for a young man and woman to meet in secret?”

“Not difficult at all,” Mrs. Nayar said. “Do you think they are…?”

“Oh no,” said Mrs. Veerappan. “It’s much worse.” She went on to relate what her sweeper girl had heard from the Balan cook. One evening, when his wife was away at a bridge party, Mr. Balan, who noticed much more than his wife gave him credit for, asked Ravi to join him for a glass of whiskey-soda. He then inquired whether the young man would like to set Nirmala up in a little flat where he could visit her without disrupting the peace of the household. Scandalized, Ravi said he had no intention of taking advantage of Nirmala. He praised her intelligence, her belief in the goodness of the world, and her willingness to improve herself. He ended by stating that he thought rigid class boundaries were the bane of Indian society and should be broken down.

“You think he means to…?” Mrs. Nayar asked, aghast.

Mrs. Veerappan spread her newly manicured hands to indicate the thoughtless perfidy of children. “Naïve, idealistic, stubborn, and rich—when a young man’s like that, anything can happen.”

THOUGH NEWS OF THE FATHER-SON TÊTE-À-TÊTE MUST HAVE
reached her, Mrs. Balan did not seem overly concerned. A few weeks later, she swept into Lola’s with Nirmala in tow, as high-nosed as ever. I scrutinized her from behind a beaded doorway as she in
formed everyone that she was going to Chennai to attend the fiftieth birthday celebration of her cousin-brother, Mr. Gopalan, who owned a five-star hotel franchise. The festivities would go on for an entire week. Gopalan, a bachelor and a playboy of sorts, loved parties and spared no expense. Mrs. Balan was leaving this evening, though Mr. Balan and Ravi couldn’t join her until the weekend. She had to have a facial and a manicure at the very least, and perhaps a deep-steam cleanse as well. She insisted that Lola take care of her personally for this important occasion.

“Are you taking your maid with you?” Mrs. Veerappan asked sweetly.

Mrs. Balan replied, equally sweetly, that she was. She couldn’t do without Nirmala for even one day. Who would iron her clothes, keep track of her jewelry, carry her packages from the best shops in Chennai, remove her makeup, and give her a bedtime foot massage? “No doubt you’re accustomed to doing all these things for yourself, dear Mrs. Veerappan,” she ended, “but I’m afraid Mr. Balan has quite spoiled me.” Then she stated that she wanted Nirmala to get a facial, too.

A collective gasp went through the room at such blasphemy.

“Give her the Ayurvedic Herbal Pack,” Mrs. Balan said, causing Mrs. Veerappan, whose face was currently slathered with that exact mixture, to come perilously close to a seizure.

I was the one to whom Lola assigned the task of removing Nirmala to a private room where she would not offend the sensibilities of our regulars. Some of Lola’s girls would have balked at working on a servant, but I didn’t mind. Since the day she called me Elder Sister, I’d felt strangely protective toward Nirmala. I worked to make her as beautiful as possible, silently wishing her luck. If things worked out, she would need it, with a mother-in-law like Mrs. Ba
lan. If things didn’t, she would need it even more.

Once she got over the wonder of being seated in a chair just like the rich madams, Nirmala chattered excitedly about going to Chennai. She had never been anywhere, apart from her village and Coimbatore. She was looking forward to the air-conditioned malls with moving staircases. And Gopalan-saar’s house, which was supposed to be twice as big as the Balans’.

As I shaped her eyebrows and massaged her firm, unblemished skin, so different from the faces I usually worked with, she confided something else to me. Mrs. Balan had given her several old silk saris to wear during the trip. Surprise must have made me frown. She hastened to add that they were very fine, and wasn’t she lucky to have such a generous mistress?

“She even gave me a fake ruby set she bought last year, for me to wear the first night when Gopalan-saar will throw a party at the house, for close friends. Madam wants me with her in case she needs something.”

I was thankful that the relationship between Nirmala and her mistress seemed as good as before. Mrs. Balan wasn’t the kind to let go of a grudge easily. Perhaps, having met her match in her stubborn son, she had decided it was best to be on friendly terms with her might-be daughter-in-law.

Nirmala examined her burnished skin in the mirror. She asked whether her face would still look as good by the weekend—which, I recalled, was when Ravi was to join them. I told her the truth, which was no. The first couple of days, with the skin still toned and shining from the massage, were the best. She bit her lower lip, deep in thought. I guessed she was trying to figure out how to meet Ravi before she left for Chennai. Then she smiled. That’s how I would remember her: glowing in the mirror, the light from the ceiling casting an asymmetrical halo around her head.

NONE OF US SAW NIRMALA AGAIN, THOUGH BITS OF HER STORY
blew back to us on the winds of rumor. Piecing them together, I felt stupid. Worse, I felt responsible. She had trusted me, called me Elder Sister. I should have seen what was coming and warned her. Though I had never been religious, I went to Goddess Parvati’s temple and prayed for forgiveness. But I knew it wasn’t enough.

This is what I guessed: That first night, by dressing Nirmala far above her station and keeping her constantly at her side, Mrs. Balan made sure that Gopalan noticed the maid. Nirmala herself must have piqued his interest with her amazement at the extravagance of his house. Admiration is a powerful aphrodisiac. After the guests left, it would have been easy enough for Mrs. Balan to complain of a headache and send Nirmala to Gopalan’s room for some medicine. Who knows what transpired between the two of them there? Only these facts are certain: Long before Ravi and his father joined the festivities, Nirmala was moved from the servants’ quarters to a suite of her own in another wing of the house. Her fake jewels were replaced with real ones, her hand-me-down clothes with designer saris studded with sequins and deep-cut blouses that showed off her charms. And from the manner in which he patted her behind when she fetched him his gin and tonic, it was clear to his guests that Gopalan had found himself a new girl.

MRS. BALAN CAME IN TO LOVELY LADIES A COUPLE OF WEEKS
later. She informed Lola that she wanted the softest, most natural-looking curls. Ravi was getting engaged to the youngest daughter of Kumaraswami, a real-estate tycoon from Bangalore. They had met
on the last day of Gopalan’s birthday celebrations. The marriage would take place in the girl’s hometown, but the engagement party would be held this weekend at the Balan residence—a small affair, really, no more than three hundred guests.

“Do you like the girl?” Mrs. Nayar asked.

“Of course! After all, she comes from an excellent family. A bit short, and a trifle plump, but smart as a whip. Already she’s talked Ravi into handing over Vani Vidyalayam to a manager and going to work for her papa. I’m a little disappointed that he’ll be moving to Bangalore—but I’m not one to hold a son back from his happiness. Now, Lola, can you make sure I’m the chicest, youngest-looking mother-in-law ever?”

Lola assured Mrs. Balan that she could. I watched amazed, because when Lola first heard the news about Nirmala, she had kicked a table and used several colorful expletives to refer to Mrs. Balan and her ancestors. Yet now, with the utmost politeness, Lola pointed Mrs. Balan to the best salon chair. I realized that the secret of Lola’s success was a perfect separation between business and personal emotion.

“No, not here,” Mrs. Balan said. “I don’t want everyone seeing what you do and then asking for the same look. You must keep this a secret. I don’t mind paying extra. And I want only Malathi to assist you.”

Lola called my name.

“Where is that girl hiding, anyway?” Mrs. Balan said.

For a moment, I considered disobedience, but when Lola called again, I followed them to one of the private rooms in the back. My heart lurched as we entered. It was the room to which I had brought Nirmala. I felt as though the goddess was sending me a message. An idea pushed through the muck of confusion in my brain.

Mrs. Balan was in high spirits. “If you do a good job,” she told
me, “I’ll give you the biggest tip you’ll ever earn.” Lola entrusted Mrs. Balan’s tresses to my care while she went hunting for youth-inducing unguents. I combed out Mrs. Balan’s hair with trembling fingers. But by the time I started mixing the chemicals for the perm, they were rock-steady.

“Smells funny,” Mrs. Balan said. “Are you using something different?”

“Yes, madam,” I said, applying carefully. “This is a special occasion, no?”

“It stings.”

“As you know, madam, beauty has its price.”

“Be careful,” she warned. “I don’t want to end up looking kinky-headed, like some Andaman aborigine.”

“Such an outcome is most unlikely, madam,” I said.

AS SOON AS LOLA WALKED INTO THE ROOM, SHE SENSED THAT
something was wrong. I could see it in the way she scrunched up her nose. Would she order me to unwind Mrs. Balan’s hair and wash it out at once?

“Give madam a pedicure while you wait for the perm to set,” she said. She busied herself with scrubbing Mrs. Balan’s face with an imported and extremely expensive exfoliant.

Mrs. Balan’s hair started falling out as soon as I ran water over it. By the time I finished rinsing, clumps of it lined the sink like dead seagrass. The shriek she emitted when she opened her eyes brought the girls—and any clients who were not attached to machines—rushing to the back room. Several shrieked in sympathy. About half of her scalp was as bald as a baby’s bottom and covered with a rash. The other half sported wilting sprouts. I swayed between terror and exhilaration. Mrs. Balan spewed invectives as she attempted
to simultaneously strangle me and gouge out my eyes. Lola, who had been vainly trying to calm her, instructed two girls to remove me from the premises. As I left, I could hear her declaring that I would never set foot in Lovely Ladies or any other beauty shop in Coimbatore again.

I lay awake all night. I would sorely miss the salon and the company of the girls. What would I do now? I was barred from the only profession I was good at or cared about. Probably, I would have to find a husband—and that, too, without the benefit of a Diamond facial. Worse, I feared I had landed Lola, who had understood my dreams better than anyone in the world, in deepest trouble.

All morning, I stayed in my room, pretending to be sick, not confessing to my parents that I had been fired. But after a while I felt like I was suffocating. I had to go to the salon, no matter how angry Lola was with me. She would probably throw me out without hearing my apology. But I had to try. I wanted to tell her how I had felt responsible for Nirmala’s fate, and how, therefore, I had to even the score no matter how much bad karma I accrued in the process.

I went around to the dingy back entrance of Lola’s, which was used only by the sweepers. I had never been there before. It took me a while to find the unmarked door. The stinking garbage piled along the open drains was symbolic of the turn my life had taken. The girl who answered my knocks looked anxious when she saw me. I said I would wait outside. Would she ask Lola to see me for just a minute?

Standing in that alley for what seemed like a lifetime, I wondered if Lola would even come. Finally, she opened the door, hands on her hips, her face stern. I whispered my explanation and apologies, my eyes on the ground. Halfway through, I was distracted by strange gasping noises. Was she apoplectic with anger? Or could she—the Amazonian Lola I had hero-worshipped—have been re
duced to tears? Perhaps Mrs. Balan had threatened to sue her. Perhaps Lola would lose her beautiful salon. When I dared to look up, I saw her hand over her mouth. She was trying to keep her laughter in check.

“Did you see her head?” Lola managed to choke out finally. “And her face? It was priceless!” Both of us burst into hysterical peals.

When I confided my fears for the salon, Lola waved a dismissive hand. “Mrs. Balan won’t dare do anything to me. I have too many influential clients, and I know too many indiscreet things that she’s said in here. If I decided to open my mouth, she wouldn’t be invited to another party as long as she lived. Besides, she needs me. Without me, within a month, she’d look fifteen years older.