Maid In Singapore (10 page)

‘Mary, I don’t
want to meet or even see your Rafael, so please don’t get me
wrong at all here. I simply want to help,’ I slowed my speech,
so she could catch each word, the line was not very clear. A lie,
meant to lure her, because I could fathom the pleasure grandchildren
can provide.

‘But why, mum?’
she asked.

The question stumped
me, catching me unprepared. I could not tell her the truth, which
was—
I
wan
t
t
o
kno
w
i
f
you
r
bo
y
i
s
m
y
husband’
s
or
m
y
son’
s
ki
d
.

‘Well, it is the
right thing to do, and I want to do it, before we all pass on. Your
son, he does have our blood in his veins, after all. My charity will
start in my house and not in some far away non-profit organization,
that is all,’ it was not an outright lie. There was a part of
me that wanted to help the boy, a small part. The larger intent was
one of establishing the boy’s paternity, and to do that, I
needed something, his hair.

‘Mum, you don’t
know how much this means to me, to us, because now I can see my boy
get educated and live in the city, maybe even work overseas, in the
offices,’ her tone was soft.

‘I can spend up
to ten thousand dollars and I can give you the money as soon as you
need it, but I need something in return from you,’ I broached
my proposed trade.

‘What is that,
mum?’

‘Some hair, from
Rafael’s head, a few grams will do,’ I said, hoping to
close the deal without inviting too many questions.

A few grams of hair are
an entire clump, lesser would do.

‘Hair, what will
you do with his hair, mum?’

‘I returned back
our hair and nails to you and I didn’t ask you what you wanted
to do with it. Rafael’s hair with me will be insurance enough
for you not to try any voodoo or tantra on us. I know you love your
son, but I love mine, too, and I will do anything to protect him.’
My counter had dawned in a flash, a genius flash, which she bought
without guessing why I had asked for the boy’s hair. ‘When
can you give it to me?’ we started to close the trade.

She paused, thinking
about it. ‘In a week, maybe two. I can call him tonight and he
will mail it to me,’ she replied. To my relief and excitement,
it had worked.

One thing got
established; the fishing villages of Cebu had phones, at least
community phones.

‘I can give you
the money as soon as I receive it,’ I hung up, after a few
conversational pleasantries.

By the time I reached
home, it was getting dark, so I decided not to search for the other
missing part of the puzzle; it was somewhere at home, best to wait
for daylight before looking for it.

The missing link was a
sample of Jay’s hair; and if I had that, along with a sample of
Rafael’s hair, I presumed I could get a genetic test done, a
test of paternity. Digging David up for reaching the truth would be
macabre, an unnecessary act, one that would draw attention, requiring
prolix reasoning in explanations. However, if Jay was not a paternal
match then it had to be David, so the truth would present itself with
a single test on the living, pre- empting the need for the dead to be
dragged into this concluding chapter of my life.

On the following day, I
combed through Jay’s room, quite literally since I picked out
his hair from the combs and hair brushes that he used when he visited
each year. I thought I had enough of what I was looking for, placing
it in a plastic Ziploc and setting it aside.

At Mt. Elizabeth
clinic, the technicians and the doctors refused to help; apparently
paternity tests are done only if you have the consent of both the
parties or if you have a judge who verifies the validity and the
legitimacy of your request.

Where doctors fail,
lawyers appear. Mine tackled the matter elegantly, once I had laid
out the background, truthfully, for them to consider. They simply
asked me to declare a written intent, an intent to draft a will. That
way we were well within our rights to have a genetic test done before
I concluded on matters regarding inheritance, after I was gone. This
preparation for death was purely for reasons of making the paternity
test legitimate; it wasn’t like I had a fortune to worry over.
The lawyer’s assistant took the better part of the morning to
put all the papers together. I decided to wait rather than return,
signing the documents there and then before heading to the flat.

On Saturday morning, I
called Mary to check if she had what I had asked for. She said she
did and asked if we could meet on the following day, which was her
day off, at the same park where we had met earlier.

O
f
cours
e
w
e
coul
d
mee
t
. I felt excited and close to closing this loop
out, for good, before moving on to other simpler preoccupations, ones
that suited my age, like knitting patterns and discovering the
secrets hidden in the Gita.

On the following day, I
arrived early at the park, sitting on the bench near the lawn.

The cricket on the lawn
stood interrupted; the boys had gathered near the pond beyond the
grassy field, peering into the water, no doubt for the ball that they
had lost. Inevitably, after a few minutes, one of the boys took off
his jeans and waded in, feeling with his feet for the sphere in the
murk below.

I did not notice Mary
walking up, until she was right next to me.

We sat and spoke for
over an hour, about things, never once visiting our dark past.

‘Mum, here, I
have it.’ She gave me the packet, I took it, and handed her the
money.

We left, just as the
boys gave up their search for the ball. By now, there were quite a
few of them in the water, dejected with drooping shoulders. The grass
in the foreground seemed to breathe and rejoice, having been given a
reprieve from the trampling of kids, even if it was for just one
afternoon.

Later at home, I
observed the hair carefully, seeing, smelling and touching them, I
had to, before handing them over to the lawyer-technicians. They
seemed unmistakably brown and straight.

On Monday, I left the
samples of hair at the lawyer’s office, not wanting to go back
to the clinic from where I had been returned once before. My lawyer
promised to do the needful, reverting in a few days, when the results
came in.

I tried to fall back
into my daily routine, in vain, while I waited, ending up spending an
inordinate amount of time at the ISKCON temple, preparing
double-edged arguments that would calm an old woman, whichever way
the test results turned out.

It brought back the
agonizing memories of another wait, the agony of waiting for Dr Paul
Ng to announce the results of venereal tests. Some memories don’t
fade with age, resurfacing, even with senility, the residual of a
sifted lifetime, the coarse bits left behind, the ones that the mind
cannot filter away into oblivion or madness.

Senectitude, does it
not begin at birth, in as infinitesimally meagre manner, growing
though adolescence and youth, till it finds its rightful dominance,
displacing all in its path?

By Wednesday, I grew
impatient, calling the lawyers, demanding a status –
If
Y
ou
Had
P
r
ovided
The
Mother’s
Genetic
Samples,
Lead
T
imes
May
Have
Been
Shorte
r
,
was all that they said, almost like an answering machine shutting you
up.

If I knew, I would have
pulled an entire tree off her head, delivering to the lawyer, hair,
scalp, tissue, blood and all.

Maybe I should have
researched more, not only about genetics but other things as well,
like—
Sexual
Position
s
an
d
thei
r
Correlatio
n
wit
h
Conception
Outcome
s
. Shouldn’t
every woman know that, selecting or at least influencing, before
getting fucked?

I waited, restless,
resisting follow-up, wandering around the parks and libraries,
exchanging hellos with people.

They called on
Thursday, asking me to either collect the results in person, or if I
wanted, I could have them post me a copy. I hung up, and rushed to
their office, where I was handed a brown envelope, with at least one
clear answer inside of it, one lesser question to torment over.

The result, it was a
99% plus match, which meant, even in a court of law, it was beyond
doubt that Rafael was Jay’s son, the stock of a domestic worker
and a Wall Street lawyer.

In some sense, I was
relieved; having a grandson was more acceptable than having a second
son. A betrayed mother is far less venomous than a cheated wife,
which is why a betrayed mother can still think of the welfare of her
grandson, entrusting care to his biological father after she passes
on.

Just like Mary, would
Jay feel the pleasure and the pride of having a strapping youth for a
son? Or, would he shun his own child, escaping to a safer more
comfortable high ground of excuses, not wanting to acknowledge what
was his. In my judgment, it would be the latter. He would want to
move on and make the bastard offspring go away, begging me to put
this knotty affair straight again, just like his father.

I thought I knew what
Jay’s excuse for distancing his own son would be —
It
wa
s
lon
g
back
,
I
wa
s
too
youn
g
an
d
I
mad
e
a
mistak
e
.

‘Mrs Rashmi, do
you want to come in? We can discuss and draw out your will, if you
think you are ready,’ my lawyer had opened the door to his
office, still holding the doorknob in his hand, resisting the
swinging door from shutting on him.

‘Yes sure, thank
you,’ I stepped inside and sat down in the seat meant for
clients.

‘I saw the
results. How would you like to have your proceeds drawn out?’
he asked.

‘My wish is to go
fifty-fifty, leaving a half of all my assets to my son Jay and the
other half to my grandson, Rafael.’ Yes, I had made up my mind,
it would be a symbolic move, meant to deliver a message to both Jay
and Mary, since the total amount in question was not very large, not
nearly large enough for the Wall Street lawyer. For the fisherman
though, it would be a fortune, half of which, still a treasure. In
fact, even a quarter, or a lesser decimal would be like dividing an
infinite amount, always leaving the infinite behind.

‘Sure, I will
have it drafted and then sent to you for approval and acceptance. You
can change the terms at any time during your life, so if you want any
amendments, just call us,’ he was getting up, moving towards
the door, thinking about his next appointment.

‘Would you help
me share a copy of the will with my son, Jay, after we have put it in
place?’ I asked, wanting to ensure that Jay understood how I
felt and had the ability to talk about it while I was still alive.

‘Sure, we can do
that on your behalf, though most of our clients keep their will
confidential. But this is not a problem. I, for one, am all for
sharing the details so no one is taken aback or surprised in the
future,’ he was holding the door open again, against its
mechanics. I stood up, thanking him before leaving.

In the future, if Jay
wanted to sell the flat, he would first have to get his son Rafael’s
consent. It would upset him, and become a sticky issue if he did not
cultivate a relationship with his family.

The will and some of
the related documents were ready in a week for me to see and sign.
They seemed in order and I went ahead, leaving Jay’s New York
address with my lawyer, for him to mail a copy to Jay.

That evening, I called
Jay and informed him that the documents he would receive were meant
only to keep affairs neat, tidy for when the time came. I did not
mention the terms of the will; I couldn’t get myself to tell
him about Rafael, losing courage, hanging up without revealing the
discovery of his past to him. I should have, I owed that to him, a
personal message rather than an antiseptic package from a lawyer that
brought with it the truth of consequences.

In any case, his annual
visit was due in a few months; we could talk about it then.

In my list of mistakes,
this was the gravest one. I should have spoken to Jay more often, now
and in the past. That way, I would have saved him.

After he received the
package, he called.

We spoke for a while
about irrelevant things before settling on the germane.

‘Mum, I saw your
will, and I accept your decision. It is the right one,’ he
said, maturely, without histrionics.

‘What about
Rafael, do you want to see him? He is your son after all?’ I
asked, for the first time in years, opening up, openly revealing that
I knew all about it. It, being his affair with the maid when he was
all of fourteen years.

‘Mum, it happened
a long while back, and I have had the time to think through it, not
only by myself but with Dad too, and I want to let it go. I want to
leave it behind, I want to look ahead. Your will is drafted with all
the right intentions and I will abide by it, respectfully, without
any fuss,’ grown up, measured and hollow, that is how he
sounded, emotionless and practised to reveal nothing.