Few men failed to notice the young peasant woman walking down Ramgarh Road three mornings after Puri left Jaipur. Her bright cotton sari might have been of the cheapest quality and tied jauntily in the style of a laborer, but it did justice to the firm, shapely body beneath. The demure manner in which she wore her dupatta over her head-the edge gripped between her teeth and one tantalizing, kohlrimmed eye staring out from her dark features- only added to her allure.
The more lecherous of the men she passed called out lustily.
'I will be the plow and you my field!' bawled a fat-gutted tonga-wallah from the front of his horse-drawn cart.
Farther on, two laborers painting white lines on the concrete divider in the middle of the road stopped their work to stare and make lewd sucking noises. 'Come and be my saddle! You will find me a perfect fit!' cried one.
The Muslim cobbler who sat on the corner surrounded by heels and soles, gooey pots of gum and a collection of hammers and needles was more discreet. But he could not take his eyes off her ample bosom or the flash of alluring midriff beneath her blouse. Thoughts passed through his head that, as a married man blessed with three healthy sons, he knew he would have to ask Allah to forgive.
Despite her coy embarrassment, the young woman understood the licentious and perfidious nature of men only too well. She ignored their comments and stares, continuing along the uneven pavement with her small bag toward the entrance to Raj Kasliwal Bhavan. There, just beyond the gate, she spotted a mali crouched on the edge of one of the flower beds, a scythe lying idle by his side. His clothes were old and tatty and he went barefoot. But his pure white hair was a biblical affair. It began like the crest of a wave, sweeping back from his forehead and cascading down around his ears in a waterfall of licks and curls, before finally breaking into a wild, plunge pool of a beard.
The mali was staring into space with a dreamy, far-off expression, which at first the young woman assumed was a manifestation of old age. Drawing nearer and smelling distinctive sweet smoke trailing up from the hand- rolled cigarette, she realized that his placid state was self-induced.
'Namashkar, baba,' she greeted him from a few feet away.
The old man stirred from his reverie and, as his drowsy eyes focused on the vision in front of him, his mouth broadened into a wide, contented grin.
'Ah, you have come, my child,' he said, drawing his beard through one hand. 'Good. I have been waiting.'
'We know each other, baba?' asked the woman with a bemused frown, her voice deeper than her youthful looks suggested.
'No, but I have seen you in my dreams!'
'I'm sure you have!' she mocked.
'Why not come and sit with me?' he suggested.
'Baba! If I wanted a corpse I would go to the graveyard!'
Her pluckiness caused the mali to laugh. 'Spend a little time with me, my child, and I will show you that I am no corpse!'
'I have no time, baba. I must find work. Is there any available here?'
He patted his thighs. 'There is work for you here!'
'Enough, baba. I am no grave robber! I was told Memsahib is hiring.'
'Memsahib is always hiring. She demands hard hours and pays little. No one stays for long.'
'But you are here.'
'Yes, I am content. I have a roof over my head and I can grow everything I need. What I don't smoke, I sell. But for you there is no charge. Make me feel young again and I will give you as much as you like for free.'
'Later, baba!' she said impatiently. 'I have mouths to feed.'
'What kind of work can you do?' he asked, sounding doubtful.
'Baba! Are you the sahib of the house? Are you the one to ask the questions? I'll have you know that I can do many things. I can clean, do laundry and cook. I even know ironing.'
The mali took another drag of his joint and gently exhaled, the smoke dribbling from his nose and trailing up his face.
'Yes, I can see that you have been many things,' he said.
His words caused the woman to chuckle, but the true reason was lost on the mali.
'A lady in the market told me Memsahib is looking for a maidservant,' she said.
'The last disappeared a few months ago.'
'What happened to her?'
'She was murdered.'
'How do you know?'
'I know.'
'Who did it?'
'It could have been one of many men.'
'She had lovers?'
The mali laughed again. 'That one was known as the 'Little Pony,'' he continued. 'There can't have been a man in Rajasthan who hadn't ridden her! I took my turn! So did the driver, the subzi-wallah, Sahib-'
'Sahib?' interrupted the woman with alarm.
'You sound surprised?'
'I've heard it said he's a good man,' she added quickly.
'People are not all that they seem. Whenever Memsahib was away, Sahib would knock on the Little Pony's door. He made a feast of her on many nights! You could hear them from miles away. But it wasn't the sahib who killed her.'
'How do you know?'
'He was not here when she disappeared.'
'Then who is the murderer, baba?'
The mali shrugged and drew the last from his joint, dropping the still-smoking end into the flower bed. The woman turned away from him and looked up at the house.
'Where should I ask for work?' she asked.
'At the back. Go to the kitchen door.'
She started up the drive.
'Wait! You didn't tell me your name,' called the mali, admiring the way her silver anklets jangled around her slim, brown ankles.
'Seema!' she shouted over her shoulder without stopping.
'I will be dreaming of you, Seema!'
'I'm sure you will, baba!'
Seema made her way up the sun-dappled driveway and along the right side of the whitewashed villa. A redbrick pathway led through flower beds planted with marigolds and verbena. Beyond, where the path led behind the house, finches gathered around a stale roti, chirping as if catching up on local news.
She reached the door of the kitchen and pulled out the letter of recommendation she had been carrying tucked into her waist. It was from a senior bureaucrat and his wife in Delhi, Mr. and Mrs. Kohli, and stated in English that Seema had worked for them for three years. They had found her 'to be an employee of the highest reliability, honesty, loyalty and integrity, also.' The letter bore Mrs. Kohli's phone number. Prospective employers were welcome to call her and ask for further details.
Seema's knock was answered by the cook's assistant, Kamat, who, judging by the wisp of hair on his upper lip, was not a day over fifteen. He was carrying a knife with which he'd been chopping ginger. Kamat in turn called the cook, Bablu, whose thick, wide nose flared when he frowned.
'Where are you from?' he asked, drying his hands on a cloth and eyeing her suspiciously.
Seema was careful to strike just the right tone when she answered-not too shy, but not overly confident either. She said, 'Sir, my village is in Himachal.'
Seema knew that everyone preferred servants from the hills; they were considered more reliable and trustworthy than those from the plains of the Hindi belt. Furthermore, hill people were not traditionally rag pickers,
