Looking for work, Bhabo happened to come to us as well. I ran my eyes over her in the way I did over a chicken to determine whether it would make good meat. Looking at her flat face one somehow didn’t become conscious either of her age or of her identity as if she wasn’t a human being, but a commodity to be discarded after it had outlived its utility. It was enough to know that she was a maidservant. Had she been someone's wife or mother, she would have been sitting in her cosy home, trying to establish the identity of each and every member of her family.

"What's your name?"

When she did not answer me immediately, I feared she was deaf. I repeated my question and felt from her expression that she would have been happier if she had had no name and thus could have escaped my questioning. But I insisted.

"I don’t know. Maybe, I had a name earlier but now wherever I work, they call me Bhabo."

I thought that, no matter what salary I offered her, she would surely ask for more. So I reduced the sum by Rs 15 and said,"Do you accept this amount?"

Bhabo swung her head sideways between her shoulders as if to say, "No" but said, "Yes, I do."

My wife forewarned her, "You'll have to do the entire work in the house - sweeping, cooking, everything. All right?"

"Yes."

"Before saying 'Yes', consider everything carefully."

She continued looking blank, as though she did not want to add to her duties by considering everything.

"And you won't get more than three chapatis[chapati, baked, pancake - like preparation made from kneaded flour] for a meal. All right?"

A joyful glimmer came to her eyes. "I have lost my appetite for years now."

It struck me that she might be a tuberculosis patient. But she did not look like one.

"You don’t suffer from fever, do you?"

"No."

"Cough?"

"No."

I decided I would still get her medically checked up as a precaution.

Bhabo has now been working for us for more than three months. she does all her work so well that we don’t need to pay any attention to her. We become aware of the servants as a burden on the mind when they don’t work properly. If the household functions normally and things proceed smoothly, why pay attention to them?

My wife is thoroughly satisfied with Bhabo's work. She has, in fact, handed over to Bhabo even the odd jobs she used to do earlier. She now spends the whole day playing with our little boy, Bala, or both of us go on making love to each other believing that we are inseparable mates in all our lives-past, present and future-and in each life, our Bala is born to us. She, I and our Bala! - None other than the three of us in our dear little world.

Bhabo? Yes, our domestic bliss won't be possible if she were not there. Now although she is very much there, she is always absent from our minds. We even forget to see her when she is physically present before our eyes. Ghost- like, she wanders about in the whole house and our eyes pass through her body, as if through the empty air. And, whenever we get to see her, it seems she suddenly appeared from nowhere.

A lady in the neighbourhood warned my wife to keep a very vigilant eye on Bhabo. "She is a veritable witch. Her last employers dismissed her because their child had begun to remain constantly ill. He hasn’t suffered a sneeze since the day they got rid of her."Yet our Bala beams at her sight. We fail to feel her presence but she sparkles playfully in Bala's eyes and cheerfully clapping, he exclaims, "Bhab-o-o-o!"

My wife then angrily directs Bhabo to go to the kitchen and mind her work there. The poor woman is dampened and turns to go away. And Bala starts crying involuntarily. Once on a similar occasion he cried and cried till he vomited whatever he had eaten. My wife grew suspicious of Bhabo and thought it was her doing. But later she laughed away her fear. Bhabo's work was so satisfactory that even if she had been a real witch, my wife would not have ventured to dismiss her. Domestic conveniences are also quite bewitching. Many a time, masters become slaves to their servants for such conveniences. And even when irritated with them over a lapse, they work up a compassionate and indulgent smile, thinking of the comforts they would have to do without, if only their servants decide to leave them. Yet employers will be annoyed with their servants even if they are diligently dutiful and do not give them a chance to assert their authority. This is perhaps the reason why we cannot help being occasionally harsh to Bhabo. But, strangely, unless we are hard on her at times, she remains dissatisfied.

Last Sunday she spilled a little tea putting the cup for me on a side table. I was engrossed in my book. After sometime, on raising my head, I saw her still standing there, hopefully awaiting a reproach.

"Yes?"

She pointed to the table, her heart beating with expectation. I might have admonished her rudely but, call it my meanness, I smiled indifferently, as if to deprive her of the expected pleasure, "Doesn’t matter."

But I immediately felt sorry. What would I lose if I scolded her a little? I looked up but she appeared to have vanished. I tried to lose myself again in the book. But before I could begin to read it, I was startled to hear her mutter an unintelligible and feeble utterance. Her eerie shadow was pitched over my head-she looked faceless and lost. In fear and irritation, I spoke to her as thought to a ghost, "Go away! - Don’t eat up my life."The shadow made a dancing movement to go away.

Bhabo is perhaps not a ghost, but ghosts are, I am sure, like her. The other day, I was alone in the house. I mean, other than me, there was only Bhabo there. She was washing utensils in the kitchen. Suddenly I heard a peal of laughter. Who is there with Bhabo? I felt a strong desire to go and see her laugh. Perhaps while laughing the faceless Bhabo had acquired a countenance. She had always appeared as she was, laughless and tearless, and seeing her, I failed to form her specific image in my mind. I closed my eyes, striving to imagine her laughing. The scene was blank for a while and then out of the murky blankness emerged our Bala romping, giggling and emitting light. He was immediately followed by his mother, her arms impatiently outstretched and her voice excitedly rolling ahead of her. I could not contain myself and in my mind rushed to join them.

"Bala, are you Mummy's son or Papa's?" "Mummy's?" Mummy enveloped her son into her arms. "No, Papa's!" Papa snatched him into his embrace. Mummy sprang to clasp both Bal and Papa. Or was it Papa who held Mummy and Bala? No, it was their Bala who had suddenly outgrown himself to take his parents firmly into his arms, both these 'children' feeling his muscles delightedly. The whole scene then began to get crowdedly festive with so many anonymous faces surrounding and adoring. Mummy, Papa and Bala who were looking securely and singularly themselves.

All of a sudden, in the midst of his excited vision, I thought I heard Bhabo mumbling something and opened my eyes. Who was with Bhabo in the kitchen? It seemed she was talking to someone in low rumbling tones. Treading softly to the kitchen, I stood at the doorway. She had her back to me and was silently busy in her work. So, was it my ears buzzing? - I retreated quietly. What a mysterious woman! For all we knew she might be a real witch.

Just above our bed-room is a small room which we have given to Bhabo. In the night whenever I am awake, I hear Bhabo pacing up and down. Once when she was removing the dishes from the table, I had asked her, lighting a cigarette and preparing myself for a ticklish after dinner story, "Bhabo, don’t you sleep at night?"

"It's good I don’t, Babuji."

I lifted my head to take a full view of this strange woman or - I should say-witch. A childhood tale came to my mind. There was once a magician who became invisible after his death but because of his magic powers, managed to remain alive as in his earlier life. He would not go to sleep, the whole night or day lest his magic be dispelled and he dropped from life.

"Bhabo, do you fear you will die if you go to sleep?"

She kept herself quietly busy with her work, ignoring my question.

"Answer me, Bhabo."

"What can I say? Once when I got up from sleep I found myself dead."A bowl fell from her hands and forgetting me, she turned to it. "Let’s go back to the kitchen. I shall teach you a lesson."

Firmly clasping the bowl, she turned to go. I stared at her, the surprise mounting in me. "Stop, Bhabo! Are you mad?"

"I don’t mind, Babuji, if I am. I am at least alive."

"But if you were really dead, how could you be alive? Wait, don’t go. Tell me your whole story."

"I'd tell it to Bibiji [Madam]."

"Why her? Why not me?"

"I can't. Not to menfolk."

She left the room in a confused rush.

Later, on my wife's interrogation, Bhabo told her that, in her youth, she was once raped in sleep by an unknown person and had become pregnant. She reared her son with great difficulty but as soon as he was old enough he forsook her and ran away. My wife informed me that on completing her story, Bhabo had remarked, "It is good the bastard disappeared before his moustaches sprouted. Had he looked at me stroking his full grown moustaches, I would have taken him for his unknown father. I would have thought he had raped me."

I began to pity Bhabo for her loneliness but warned my wife never to leave Bala alone with her. The mad woman might sometime strangle him in a fit of love.

"She's certainly mad," my wife agreed. "I have often heard her talking to herself."

"So have I. But could not follow her."I recalled the incident of that day.

"As if anyone can,"commented my wife. "The other day, she was unable to light the stove and her hands and face had blackened with the soot. She was threatening it, "Let me light you just once. It will then be your turn to roar in helpless anger."

We laughed.

"She's so quiet in our company."

"Yes," my wife said, "but hear the demented woman when she's in her own company. Let me tell you another one. She was leaning against the inner wall, "Do you want to fall upon me? Don’t you know I am already dead? You’re laughing? All right! Go on till you collapse and become a heap of debris yourself."

Laughing at Bhabo, we found ourselves rocking in love but stopped short when Bala woke up, crying. Both of us then set about rocking his cradle, my wife singing to him and I resting my fond eyes on them-me, her and our Bala! Just the three of us made our dear little world!

Earlier the census- man had asked, "Only three?"

"Yes."

"Any servant?"

"We have a maidservant."

"Then why don’t you say four?"

"Our home…"

"Your home's made up of the three of you, but my dear Sir, there are four for the country. The name of the fourth one?"

"Bhabo has no name."

"You are right. At least one-fourth of our population is nameless. These people don’t exist but for official reasons we have to name them and make the necessary entry in the national register. Give a fake name to your Bhabo. Let’s call her Vidya Devi, the Goddess of Knowledge, if you please. Come, Bhabo! Put your thumb impression here. My dear Sir, when you sign your name in carefully arranged letters, one may doubt the truth of your name. But see how the thumb has imprinted a natural pattern of human truth. Wash off the ink with soap Bhabo, and go to make chapatis with your hands. Come Sir, you sign your name here."

But let me tell you what I saw last Sunday evening. If somebody told me this story, I would have never believed it.

Bhabo sat at her usual seat in the kitchen to make the dough for chapatis. First, she picked up a pan and jerking it said, "Come on, wake up now. If you kept sleeping, would I make the dough in my head?"

Then she put the two measures of flour in the pan and began to talk to it, "Patience! Why are you flying off? Yes, here’s the water. Drink it. No, drink it slowly. A little at a time."

Hugging close to the wall, I tried to suppress my laughter and felt choked, as if I had gulped a whole glass of water in a single go.

"Yes, this is the way you should drink, "Bhabo was now kneading the flour with a steady hand, still talking to it. "I would now knead life into you. Enough! No more! Drink only as much as you can easily take in. Now! Now why are you jumping out of my hands? Because somebody's coming to meet me? Who? My son? That bastard choked his mother to death the day he ran away. How many years has it been ? Wait! Let me count them. One… two… three.. What? look here, if I don’t knead you with a little force, how can I fill you with life? Seven… eleven, twelve! Yes it has been twelve years since he left me. Every moment of these twelve years has been a long, long mile. Yes, now you are uniform and your breath perfectly settled. I shall now press you softly. Do you like my hand now? You aren't going to sleep, are you? Count all the moments of these twelve years and tell me how many miles I have travelled. No, I didn’t pause a moment anywhere. Which son will leave his mother alone on a road thousands of miles long? He used to say, let me grow up, Ma, you'll then see! How can I see when he has grow up, Ma, you'll then see! How can I see when he has torn out my eyes? If I could see him once, my sight would be blessed. Oh, me! Who am I telling my story to? My soft hand has already sent you dozing. OK, dear! When you get a little set in sleep, I shall wake you and roll you into pretty balls."

Getting kneaded like the flour under Bhabo's hands, even I had started going into slumber. I tried to jerk myself out of this spell but remained close to the wall, seeing and hearing everything in sleep.

That bright brass urn had perhaps called out to Bhabo. She fixed her gaze on it and said, "Yes, I do know you are awake. But when the whole thread of the story has slipped through my fingers, what shall I pull? My hair? … Ha… ha… ha!" She laughed her head off, looking at the empty glasses, and said, "I tell you stories of the whole world but you always remain empty. Why don’t you look brimmed that a person may be tempted to hold you to his lips? No! Stay away from the chillies, or you will go on sneezing till your glass is broken into pieces."

Then she turned to the red chillies, "Don’t be angry, old lady. You are so pungent and outspoken that everybody tries to avoid you? No, madam, I remember to have tasted you once. You are too hot for me. What? You find me to your taste? Who holds you from tasting me? Go on. Yes. You want me to tell you more about my lost son? What shall I tell you? If I met him, I would simply pour the whole of you into his mouth. Tell me, does anyone treat his own mother like this? Arr.. rr…. Why have you started speaking all at once? No, one at a time. No, how do I know where he is now? Wherever he is, he is no longer mine. He must be living with the mother he made his wife. His real mother doesn’t exist for him. Arr..rr..r! Again, Bhabo! Bhabo! Bhabo! Do you think I am deaf? Stop it!" Bhabo addressed herself to all the kitchen with her hands raised above her head,"Quiet!"

Watching the whole scene I was no longer feeling my own self. I felt that, like all other objects of the kitchen, I also belonged to the world of Bhabo.

When Bhabo rose to wash her hands, the stove perhaps lifted its head to say, "I won't tease you today, Bhabo. I shall get it lighted on my own."

"Yes, Sonny, those who light up their on their own do not get choked with smoke."

Bhabo came to the water tap, "Are you without water today also? I may as well leave you unopened. No? You're full today? Getting drowned? All right." Bhabo opened the tap and the water gushed forth blithely to wash her hands.

"Why are you making such a noise dear? You are so full of sound and rush that I can't see you. Oh, darling, no, not so loud and fast! Slower, that I may follow you."

"Chh… chha.. Bhabo! Chha… Bhabo!"

Yes, it was really the water speaking. I could hear it direct - "Chha… Bhabo!" Till now it was throught what Bhabo had spoken that I knew what objects in the kitchen were saying to her. But, believe it or not, I could now really hear them direct - "Chh… chha.. Bhabo!"

"I can't make out anything, child. I think I should reduce your pressure."

"No, Bhabo, let me be open to the full and speak out."

"All right, speak out freely. He too used to speak freely. But he drowned me and went away. God knows, where?"

"He went nowhere, Bhabo! You are immersed in him, immersed in the water your own body carries. No, don’t reduce my pressure, please. Look at me intently. More intently, Bhabo!"

Bhabo looked at the water so intently that it welled up in her eyes.

Remaining glued to the wall as part of its stone, I was experiencing how, by her sheer desire for companionship, Bhabo had granted life and soul to each inanimate object, even me!