Maid In Singapore

by Kishore Modak

  The police had been through everything, not leaving an inch of our house un-swept.

  ‘No, I never loaded the gun,’ he went up to the bag of toys and peered in, the bullet was missing. He was calm and able to think rationally by late afternoon. ‘Come, let us try to trace the bullet’s path,’ he went to the window and mentally drew a line from the chair where he had fired the gun to the empty space where the pane had been hit, and beyond. About four metres from the missing pane was the maid’s room, and in her flimsy door was a neat hole about ten millimetres in diameter. A bit further on the wall of her room was a pit, from where the cement had fallen off, only a little more than ten millimetres in diameter. We tried to put our little finger in, searching for the renegade bullet, there was nothing, obviously, since the police would have been here and would have swept the place clean, their geometry being far more precise than ours.

  ‘I think I shot her,’ David had sunk to the floor, right next to the bloody mattress, besides the very place he had taken her. He was crying ‘God, please forgive me, you know I did not intend to shoot her. What have I done?’ a thin wail rose from his throat.

  How does a man come to grips with killing somebody? Like everything else, he ponders before moving on, finally finding some excuse for the acts that he has committed. What if he were to find no avenue of excuses? Then the thought of giving up, on one’s own life, may enter the plot.

  I consoled him ‘It was an accident, a genuine accident, and luckily she is only injured and not dead, so don’t be so harsh on yourself.’

  The incident was reported in the afternoon papers. It got reported as domestic violence with undertones of upholding maid’s rights in Singapore. It noted ‘violence indoors’ as an addition to the more popular atrocity of high rise falls that maids suffered on the island. How ignorant they were of what actually happens. In a news box there was a photo of our apartment window, taken from below, near the guardhouse, lens trained upwards, towards us.

  Later, I took David back to the maid’s room. ‘If the bullet hit the wall, then it would have merely scraped her. She will be fine,’ I said, pointing at the pit in the wall.

  At night, Jay was too scared to sleep by himself. We took him between us, caressing and consoling the distraught child to sleep. We, too, were jangled, too restless to fall asleep, images of blood and naked flesh flashed, each time I shut my eyes. David tossed and turned, till we moved to the dining table, sipping whisky. The alcohol did not induce its usual exuberance; it simply dulled us.

  ‘Do you think I will be jailed and caned?’ he asked me.

  How could I tell? I was not an expert at the land’s law, well not yet at least. Caning in Singapore was a common sentence, delivered by a well-oiled rattan on the lower back, scarring the recipient for life, for everyone to see and recognize the consequence of criminal behaviour. But, I had to answer with confidence. Poor David, as usual, he was the one needing my help.

  ‘But you did no intentional crime, your gun is licensed and you had no intention of killing or injuring anyone, so what can they charge you with?’ I took his hand in mine.

  ‘If she is pregnant, it will be motive enough for me to kill her, would it not?’

  ‘Not really, because we already settled with her. She was to be sent off tomorrow, back to Manila, so why should you want to kill her?’ I was the answer to all his questions. ‘Remember, we don’t know for sure if she is pregnant.’

  ‘Do you think her husband will visit her here?’ David was scared of facing the man he had cheated. The cheated woman, me, was his accomplice now, but the thought of facing the husband whose wife he had fucked and then shot, was making him paranoid.

  ‘Could be, but so what? We will just take it in our stride. Don’t worry, I will take care of everything,’ I took him to bed, gently patting him to sleep.

  Truth is, I felt I was responsible for everything. It is a wife’s responsibility to steer the family safely home through stormy waters. I was a failure, first encouraging his sexual excesses, then accepting infidelity and now harbouring crime. Then again, if I had not done what I had, my family would be torn apart, so in some sense I was actually dispensing my wifely duties, giving sexual satisfaction to my partner and standing by, in his hour of need.

  If he was a bad husband, then that was his burden to bear.

  In the morning, Inspector Tan came visiting.

  ‘Inspector, how is she?’ I asked, after offering him water and some biscuits.

  ‘She will be fine. She is lucky. The doctors say it was just a graze. We have been able to take her statement as well and prepare our preliminary report. She is with child. The doctors were worried about her baby, but now there is no danger.’ He could tell from my look, I was surprised, a bit taken aback.

  ‘Oh, so you did not know she was carrying? That is the main reason that the Ministry of Manpower wants her deported, not the only one though. Her tickets are booked for tomorrow. She should be fit enough for travel.’ The words released the tension that hung in the air. She was alive and on her way out of our lives, but what about us?

  I asked what was on all our minds, ‘Is she pressing charges of any nature?’ She could come after us on two counts—sexual exploitation or intent to murder.

  ‘No. She says she will be able to settle with you, outside the court,’ he looked at David, who had joined us.

  ‘Who loaded the gun? That is the question that we need to answer. Pulling the trigger without the intent of killing or hurting someone is not a crime,’ he added, removing the bracelet from David’s wrist.

  ‘You mean, I am a free man?’ David asked, gently massaging the wrist where the bracelet had hung.

  ‘Yes, your personal life, tastes et cetera, are not the object of our investigation. In the eyes of the law, you have committed no crime, since you had no intent of hurting or killing anyone,’ he added, hooking the bracelet to his belt, adding it to the accoutrements that policemen carry around their waist. He knew about our bag of toys, obviously, just that it did not matter.

  ‘That is a relief, but I don’t understand. After all I was the one who shot her,’ David asked.

  ‘True. But, we know that you were not the one who loaded the gun. Mary, your maid, has confessed that she loaded the gun.’

  ‘Why should she do that?’ I gasped, unable to fully comprehend what I had just heard.

  ‘She suspected that she was pregnant the minute the agent mentioned deportation. A simple test, which she got done in a private clinic herself, confirmed her predicament. She was not sure, but felt that the child might be your husband’s.’ He knew everything; our little secret was now a record in the police files of Singapore.

  ‘With you out of the way,’ he pointed to me, ‘she felt she had a chance of being with your husband, on a longer term basis, at least under his long-term financial protection,’ he delivered her motive, in an even but compassionate tone.

  Mary, my maid, wanted me dead so she could be with my husband, who may be the father of her bastard child. Knowing well his ways, she simply loaded the gun, waiting for him to the pull the trigger, and me to die.

  ‘As per the law, she was the one who intended murder, so if there are charges, it will be against her,’ he concluded.

  How can you be charged with the crime of intending to shoot yourself?. . . which was the case in this instance. It was absurd but very real.

  ‘Inspector, can I see her, before she is deported?’ I wanted to bid her goodbye, not in spite, but strangely, in sympathy. We—me, she and David— had to move on. After all, we were nearing the end of this chapter. She may have tried to murder me, but I felt a pain for her sorry state of life—fucked, then shot and incriminated in a failed attempt on her own life. If she asked, I would forgive her, giving her the money and wishing her the best.

  I was sure the child would be dark like the Bongla boys, no question about it, at least in my head, because I knew for a fact—for impregnation, missionary is the best position.

&nb
sp; ‘I am not sure, but I can try. She will fly at 10 a.m., from Terminal-2 tomorrow. You can come by and see her off if you like. My men will escort her. If you want to give her any money, please be sure to inform the officer,’ he stood up as if to leave. ‘As an aside, just wanted to let you know that apart from being pregnant, she was also found carrying sexually transmitted infections. Nothing serious, a course of antibiotics should suffice,’ he added, before begging leave.

  What he meant was—Please get checked and make sure you two don’t have it, and if you do, please take the right medication.

  So, now we would have to go to the doctor and detail our fears of Sexually Transmitted Diseases, asking for tests and medication. Then we would be rid of this whole incident, free to head back home and resume our lives. Moving East, had not been a good idea. I should have defied gravity, letting David take the package and perch around for a period of time.

  If I did have it—the infections—would it not be like me having sex with Mary, at least indirectly, with germs spreading from her to him and then to me.

  At the door, the inspector wavered, turning around. ‘I believe this is yours. Maybe you should have it. We found it in her room.’ He passed me a small Ziploc, inside which lay the sum total of bewilderment. Mary had collected our nails, hair, buttons and such in the bag; I could tell by the colour and type of enamel on the nails, they were mine.

  ‘What is this, Inspector? What did she have in mind?’ I asked him, sinking back onto the divan.

  ‘Practicing the occult, it is quite common in South-East Asian countries, particularly the rural and tribal belts. They use these objects for rituals back home in their villages and cities. I would just ignore it, and I wouldn’t bother about them. Just that I wanted to hand it back to you, so you know,’ he finally left.

  Occult, isn’t that the part where people in long hair and painted faces dance around in a trance, casting spells on other people, playing with dolls and needles, wishing others dead, diseased or possessed? Maybe she just wanted to carry it back in case she needed to cast tantric-hypnotic-long-distance spells on us, commanding us to transfer money into her account. Stupid bitch, money was all that she wanted from us. I did not believe in hocus-pocus but it disturbed me.

  David thought I was daft to go and meet Mary on the following morning, after what she had attempted. Yet, I persisted. She had lived with us and I wanted to see her off, that was that.

  I should have listened to him, because what I found at the airport redefined the rest of my life. As if the present turmoil was not enough, it shook me again to the roots, reminding me how little I understood my own family. It left me close to giving up.

  In the morning, I woke up and headed to the temple early, well before her flight back to Manila. The temple at Changi village is close to the beach, a ten-minute ride from the airport terminal. It is a Ram temple erected by British Garrisons after the World War, around 1946. Standing in front of the Lord, I folded my hands, making a mental note, for getting an appointment with Dr Paul Ng for later that afternoon. I missed the beach temples of Tamil Nadu and Karnataka, probably the only real lasting memory from my roots in India. The priest offered prayers on my behalf, anointing my forehead with ash. I sat in front of the Lord and cried, compounding my trials, leaving the priest helpless, as he hovered about me. I covered my head with a scarf, a bit out of respect in the house of God, but more from the need to hide, from any acquaintances that may walk up and ask, ‘Hey, I saw the photograph of your apartment in the papers the other day, hope all is well.’ What would I reply, other than evasive nothings and meaningless mumbles.

  I got up and left, relatively composed. As I swung the rope attached to the bell at the temple’s threshold, the priest came to me and tied a sacred thread around my right wrist as he blessed me. I bowed and left.

  Something was holding me back from going to the terminal and seeing her. It made me stop at the beach twice, walking up to the benches on the waterfront, where I sat down. A few optimistic fishermen cast lines in the dead, industrial, seafaring waters. A flotilla of trading vessels marred the seascape like warts on an otherwise beautiful face. A few jobless people floated listlessly about. It was quiet, hot and sultry. A fish eagle swooped athletically into the water, coming up with fish, much to the consternation of the lazy anglers.

  It is best to spend time privately in public places, like empty parks and deserted train stations.

  At the terminal, the officer greeted me, asking me if I had had anything to give Mary, who was in a wheelchair next to him. I handed him the packet, he counted the notes—all of ten thousand dollars— made a record and then handed them to Mary. He walked a few metres away, leaving us somewhat private.

  She took the money, ‘Thank you, mum. I am sorry, mum. Please forgive me, mum, if I caused any pain to you. I really did not mean to.’ She seemed fine, sitting in the chair, one arm in the sling while the other held the boarding pass, the passport and the money.

  Which route of conversation should I take? Should I ask her why she had fucked my husband and then tried to kill me, or should I let it pass, accepting her apologies, letting things go?

  ‘You know you are pregnant. How will you take care of the child,’ I touched her shoulder with a consoling pressure. All around us, passengers milled, searching and rushing for flights.

  ‘Don’t worry, mum. I will be with my husband soon. We don’t go to expensive doctors. He won’t know. God will take care of the child,’ she said.

  Devious bitch would pass off another man’s child to her own husband.

  ‘Sorry, mum. You are a kind person and I have been like a devil in your house. Please forgive me if you can. Please, mum,’ she was now weeping into the tissue that I gave her.

  ‘It’s okay, don’t cry, let bygones be bygone, go home and start a new life. I cannot forgive you, but I will not curse or condemn you.’ I did not go anywhere near the growing child’s suspect paternity or the child’s future.

  In a final act, I wheeled her to the sliding doorway before immigration checks; the officer handled her travel document. She went through and onto the other side, finally out of our lives, beyond the geographic boundaries of Singapore. From the other side, she waved goodbye and pointed at her cell phone, as if she wanted to tell me something.

  I fished my instrument from my handbag. There was a message waiting for me; it was from Mary. ‘Urgent - GET JAY’S MEDICAL TESTS DONE QUICKLY.’

  I panicked, with all sorts of possibilities flooding my mind. Looking up, I saw she had already left; there was no sign of her. I tried calling, but her phone was off. Instinctively, I started rummaging for the inspector’s number; he could stop her from boarding the flight. For God’s sake, he could ground the flight itself if he decided to. I could not let her go without knowing exactly what she had done to my child, my innocent baby.

  I found the number, but I did not use it. What was I supposed to tell him? ‘Can you please stop my maid from leaving since I suspect she has also had sex with my son?’ What could he do? Was I expecting him to ground the flight and Mary? And then what? Reopen healing wounds? Hesitation marred my actions as I thumbed the telephone’s keypad with angry nail stabs, incoherent, confusing the instrument into incongruous beeps and baps.

  I was quite sure that the inspector did not know, otherwise he would have mentioned it, wanting to protect a child’s interest.

  While driving back, a few more pieces fell into place. In most countries with a recourse to law, sex with a minor, below the age of eighteen, is considered statutory rape, so if I had called the inspector and spelt my suspicions, there was a definite possibility of a conviction and a sentence for Mary. A diplomatic row too, since the criminal, Mary in this case, was not native to Singapore.

  On the other hand, was this simple barter? Crimes done on her nullifying crimes done by her? It is possible that she had pressed no charges against David since she knew that the investigation would have led to the discovery of her paedophilic ways. In
some sense, perhaps a crime committed by a husband was repaid by his son?

  I shouldn’t have let her take complete charge him, which is where it would have begun, while we were away at night and she was charged with putting Jay to bed.

  Now I had been cheated on two counts—as a mother and as a wife—by the same person. The reactions to infidelity vary for a mother as compared to a wife, in my case they mixed, forming a poison that started consuming me from within.

  Is it right for me to be considered cheated as a mother? Was I not supposed to look out for my child? I was trying to, by getting a maid—clearly failing.

  Fourteen, it was the age at which my child lost his virginity, to the domestic maid. Was it not classic, the surest pub tale, which would have friends in peels for the rest of his pub life? I wish I could listen in, assimilate all the sordid details and be comforted, knowing that I knew the details, and that he was flippant enough to laugh them off, with drinks among friends.

  In such matters, the details one needs are mostly the same, irrespective of whether you are a betrayed mother or a cheated wife—where-when-how and who initiated it.

  Where? It had to be in the kid’s room, unless she had lured Jay into the comfort zone of her own bed, defiling at the same spot where she had been defiled, revenging where she had been ravaged.

  When? Mostly, it had to be when we were away in the evenings at the club, with a distinct possibility of her slipping into his bed, on the pretext of putting him to bed.

  How? If it was missionary then that opened up a whole new possibility of fertility and fatherhood at fourteen.

  Who? It had to be she who initiated it. Legally speaking, a fourteen-year-old cannot force the matter; practically speaking, he can, especially given dad’s predilections, and with the onset of teenage curiosity, the surfacing of sexual experimentation through inheritance did exist.