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hour in the evening, but which sometimes ran for less on governmental whimsy. Of course, it was a matter of unwritten protocol that the landlord’s family got first use of the facilities, but they were good people, sensible of the silent, impatient queue that waited around the courtyard concealed imperfectly behind closed doors, and so did not linger unnecessarily.
    Her place of work was little more than a short brisk walk from her home, beyond this village that existed inexplicably in the middle of the burgeoning city. A decade ago, the village had been surrounded by fields; now it lay engulfed by suburbia, small industry, and the noise of highway construction. Swallowed whole, it had changed from quiet rural hamlet to urban slum, infested by workers who serviced the houses and industries around. The end of the dirt road widened astonishingly into tarred splendor. The transition from grime to rich suburban grace was marked and sudden, divided by a gutter and little else. Here, chaos. There, her employer’s neighborhood: lavish bungalows neatly planned, fronted by tiled pavements, enclosed by walls and gardens and security guards; houses so large, they reversed traditional slum proportions: instead of one room for four people, they appeared to have four rooms per inhabitant.
    “Namaste, sister,” the watchman said, as she neared the gate. “You are late this morning, are you not?”
    “No, am I?” she said, worriedly. She did not possess a watch, and time was always a slippery affair, expanding andcontracting, sliding this way and that, so her judgment never seemed to match reality.
    “No,” said the watchman, with a passing kindness, “perhaps not. Do not worry.”
    She slipped down the narrow side path that led to the back kitchen entrance and placed her rubber chappals on the shelf provided for the purpose.
    Her eyes first went to the wall clock; no, habba, she was fine.
    “Ah, sister, there you are!” Thangam sat cross-legged on the mosaic kitchen floor, an ever-present accounts book open on her lap. “Come and listen!”
    “What is it?”
    “Hush! Listen! That fool has gone upstairs to ask for money, with the usual results …”
    Sure enough, the sounds of raised voices bounced down the stairs: argument, and counterargument; anger, pleading counterpoint.
    Thangam seemed to relish the drama playing out abovestairs between their employer and Shanta the cook as though it were being staged for her own entertainment. “Shanta expects success where she has failed before; she will never learn,” she said. Indeed, their employer’s querulous speech had morphed from the importance of fiscal prudence to the ingratitude of servants who kept wanting more. “How foolish! She will not get the money and we shall be forced to suffer Vidya-ma’s bad temper for the rest of the day.”
    This was precisely what Kamala feared. She herself had a request to make of Vidya-ma and she did not want it jeopardized. Thangam pulled out a small mirror from her purse, inspecting her face and wiping an infinitesimal speck of kajal from the corner of one eye.
    “Are you coming upstairs?” Kamala asked.
    “In a few moments,” said Thangam. “I just want to finish these chit fund entries.”
    Kamala knew it was useless to argue; Thangam’s aversion to her cleaning duties was in direct proportion to her interest in matters of financial import and personal grooming. Kamala collected the brooms and bucket and mopping cloth. “Oh, and that girl in my courtyard—impertinent thing!—said she had the money ready for you …”
    “About time,” said Thangam. “She is already late on her payments. I’ll collect it this evening.”
    “Vidya-ma will give you permission to visit?”
    “Sister, don’t be silly.” Thangam’s attention was back on her accounts book. “I will not be telling her.”
    Shanta’s heavy tread came down the stairs, her round, doughy face with its forever open mouth like an uddin-vada, hiding the harsh