Maid In Singapore (13 page)

Why couldn’t I
simply think of him as a new daughter, the one who would care for me
when my bones ached intolerably with rheumatism? I glared deadpan, at
the marble statue in the sanctum. I would accept her as a daughter,
if she accepted me as a mother. But
sh
e
had simply
looked through me, making small talk as I showed concern for my
missing son, ridiculing me with her false ignorance, humouring me
with the view from her
rented
flat. Why did she not simply
tell me? I would have understood. Krishna knows I would have accepted
any reason, no matter how silly? Then again, how could she? Each
throwback to her male past would be another nail in her female
present, she had to move on—simply seeing what she saw in front
of her, her landlord’s mother.

In
he
r
mind, wasn’t Jay her mother and her father, a dead mother and a
dead father, parents dying soon after her birth, lying mutilated and
conjoined, crammed into one coffin.

She—Eve
Costello—had emerged from the ashes of my son’s
cremation.

He was dead and gone. I
broke into a pitiful wail, hitting my head against the stolid marble
feet of the Lord. The caretaker was alerted by the sound, he came
rushing, turning the lights on, illuminating the blood stained feet
of my failing God, before leaving.

How does one identify
with oneself? Probably, by standing aside or alongside oneself,
making conversations, before accepting or rejecting oneself. What is
at the root of an identity crisis? Is it the need to run away from an
existing identity, or is it the allure and appeal of the new
identity, a longing to be someone else, something strong enough to
overshadow even the truth of actual existence?

How would it all have
started? It would have happened in phases, rather than a single jolt
of rebellion.

First, may have come
cross-dressing, pink satin under a lawyer’s male business suit.
The next step was perhaps drag-fashion, and the test of looks that
sh
e
may have received from the guys on the streets and
in the bars. Someone peering down her cleavage, or making a pass,
gratifications and cues to move a step further, where actual dating
and hanging around with males may have begun, just one step before
making out. Making out, would have been a dangerous game—
sh
e
would have to ensure that her male date did not reach into her crotch
or her bra, where she had only a penis and some padding to show for
passion.

At this point,
sh
e
would have been filled with the guilt of homosexuality or lesbianism,
a guilt that may have fuelled
he
r
eventual decision
towards a surgical intervention.

All the while,
sh
e
would have consulted physicians, taking oestrogen and other hormonal
injections, suffering the searing headaches and the giddiness that
comes with them. The final step would be to prepare for actual sex,
with penetration.

Maybe, to her mind,
fucking is a male act, getting fucked would be female, to accept
another into the dark unknown depths of the female anatomy, where
he
r
secrets reside. After the surgery, with ever increasing dosages of
drugs,
sh
e
may have experienced female orgasm, at which
point the sexual salvation would be over, but the psychological
resurrection, just beginning.

The more I thought
about it, the more I came to respect what the police doctor had said;
a mental transition from male to female would have been an elusive
quest.

The act of copulation
is a few minutes, but for the rest of the day, a male heart pumps
blood into a male consciousness; it would take years to get the mind
to transition from
tha
t
male to
thi
s
female. Any recollection of the male past may be a setback in that
journey.

The day would be filled
with hours, spent in front of the mirror.

She, Eve—let me
get used to using that name— had handled my presence well,
training her mind to block out her past male recollections. I am
certain the strain of the past is tackled best by moving away,
physically away from your old life, carving out a new one, where
everyone knows you as a woman right from the start, which may be key
in making the mental transition, continuous reaffirmation of identity
from all those around you.

If I simply left, and
let things be, I would lose
her

forever; she would
vanish.

‘Costello’
was the choice of last name that my son had chosen, after he became a
woman. It is of Irish origin. I cannot fathom what may have driven
that choice.

The caretaker let me be
in the sanctum all night, where I eventually fell asleep for a few
hours. In the morning, he came and sent me to my bed, cleansing my
crusted blood, from the Lord’s feet before other devotees
arrived.

The sleep left me
slightly reasonable. I showered and ate, before heading back to the
park, where I simply sat and pondered. The caretaker had helped dress
my self-inflicted wounds; they were minor cuts.

Why did Jay do it?

There could be many
avenues that may have presented themselves.

Maybe, he was simply
transsexual and did it after many years of reasoning. I hoped that
was the reason; I did not want my will, either the written one or the
one that I exhibited in my life, culminating in the discovery of his
son, to be a contributing factor in his confusion of identity. Or
shall I say the
clarit
y
of his identity.

Did he prefer being a
mother to his son rather than a father? Now, his son Rafael had two
biological mothers. Not like two lesbians adopting a son; this was
two women having an equally valid biological claim of maternity.

Or did he do it because
of me? Our life, Jay’s and mine, had been a series of shocks
and blows delivered by one to the other. The first was his doing,
when he had sex with the maid, and got away with it. The second was
my doing, digging up the present and finding his son, then informing
him about his parenthood. That had played a role, hadn’t it,
even if he was naturally inclined to being a transsexual, that
information would have forced him to think about paternity, comparing
it to maternity, choosing one? Proverbially, the ball was now in my
court to hit. In the sequence, was I not expected to deliver the next
blow?

I looked back, way back
to when he was born— our bundle of joy—until now. I did
not pick up any effeminate traces in his childhood or through
adolescence when he was with me.

Now what? Was I to
launch an all-out mission of finding everything about his life in New
York, his friends, his hobbies, books he read, movies he saw and so
forth, observing from a distance, never once resurfacing in his
female life?

Was there any remorse
in Eve’s life, a longing for maleness after he had become a
female?

A repulsive thought
crossed my mind—one of me becoming a male, a thick stringy
muscle from my thigh, surgically implanted as my penis, in my crotch,
grey-pubic-hair all around it.

What could be the
outcome of my project of discovery? More details about his life? But,
did it matter? Probably not, not unless I got a son or a daughter
back in return from the labour of what would be a tiresome discovery.

It was better, as
advised by the police doctor, for me to simply return to where I had
come from, forget him, simply praying for him to come back if and
when
sh
e
was ready.

When I died, the
lawyers would inform
he
r
, leaving what was rightfully
her
s
. It was possible that during the execution of my
will, after my death, he or she would have to face the ghosts of his
fisherman son.

Did he long for breast
milk, as in feeding an infant, having a child?

Over the next one week,
I simply retreated to the ISKCON, pulling out my laptop and
completing this journal, a pointless journal but in my mind, it
needed completing and sharing.

I couldn’t sleep
much; I went to a clinic and asked for sleeping pills. The doctor
gave me only a couple at a time, with hesitation.

After a week, I decided
to leave, go back to London and settle back into my routine. Before I
went, I wanted to see Eve once, just speak to her, not necessarily
try and influence or probe her, just meet her before I went away.

On the following day, I
went back to Jay’s apartment.

‘I am looking for
Eve in eighteen-o-three, can you please check if she is in? My name
is Mrs Rashmi Kettlewood,’ I announced to the concierge, not
knowing if Eve would want to see me.

She did, and I was let
into the elevator lobby.

She, Eve, was in home
clothes, shorts and T-shirt, with little or maybe no makeup on,
stunning and sexy as ever. Would she have guessed that I knew she was
my son’s female avatar? If she had, she concealed him well.

‘Hello, Eve.
Thanks a lot for seeing me. I am on my way back to London and wanted
to leave this envelope for my son. I thought of leaving it with you,
in case you saw him in the future.’ It was a dangerous
approach, leaving a package with a person’s female persona to
be delivered to the male persona, which was hopefully dead, as far as
she was concerned. To me, it did not matter; all I wanted was a
child.

It was exactly the kind
of thing that could push Eve to confront her male identity, her male
personality and along with that, all of her male past, and her
uncertain future.

‘Sure, I can do
that, if I see him. Not to worry, I shall keep it safe,’ she
responded well, with no signs of stress or psychic fatigue on her
face. To my relief, she also asked me in, offering me a glass of
water. The living room was bright with sunlight streaming in from the
bay windows.

‘I hope you found
what you came here for?’ she asked, settling into the couch
besides me, her waxed legs neatly folded under her curvy back-bottom,
like when two ladies settle down informally.

Men tend to sit with
their legs spread wide apart, knees jutting out, and upwards.

‘Yes and no. I
have found enough, enough to know that my son is well and healthy,
and that is what matters to a mother. I will head back in peace,’
I said, eyeing the envelope lying in front of us on the table. ‘I
have left the envelope unsealed, so you know what the contents are,
only a few pages from a mother to a son, and nothing else,’ I
added, pointing to the envelope.

If she decided to read
what was in the envelope, would it not be an acknowledgement of her
maleness, since she was reading what was directed at her male self.
Then again, she could read it as if she were spying on other people’s
letters, inquisitive about others’ lives and matters, which
would be quite normal as well.

She must be preoccupied
with what is natural and what is not, all the time.

‘That is no
problem. I have your email id and I shall drop you a line if I see
him,’ she said.

What if Eve stopped
paying rent for the premises to Jay, would they confront each other?

I sipped from the glass
of water ‘You have been very kind to see me. I must not keep
you,’ I said, looking up at the clock on the wall.

‘No that is fine.
I was about to get a spot of lunch. I can offer you some, too, if you
are hungry,’ she asked.

I grabbed the
opportunity, and consented to stay, making fake outward gestures,
resisting her invitation on the flimsy pretext of not wanting to be a
bother.

‘Where are you
from? Are you from New York?’ I asked, was it not normal to
make chit-chat over lunch.

‘My father was
Irish, and I have been in this city since childhood. I like it here,’
she replied, continuing our little game of cat and mouse. I was
winning; she had no clue that I knew him and sensed the him in her.

Inside her, the
him
would know that it was me, his mother, sitting opposite him. Yet, she
continued on this path of lies, not letting her guard down. She had
not guessed that I knew about the
him
hiding in her; she must
gloat at the idea of even
his
mother being taken in by the
transformation. My visit would have added a new confidence to her
current identity, cementing faith in the perfect disguise.

For him and for her,
wasn’t this meeting with the past the ultimate exam, one they
would have desperately wanted to clear, like a test taken for a
dreaded disease?

What if I became rude
and declared that I wanted see my son, asking for her to go to the
bedroom and fetch him? If she refused, I would tell her stories of
his past, especially the ones where he defiled my maid and bore her
children, like only men can do with women.

That would break
he
r
,
leaving me victorious when I did not want to win against my own
child.

‘The salad is
very nice, so good to be able to eat a home-cooked meal, after so
many days,’ I continued with small talk.

She smiled, picking a
morsel on the edge of her fork, with dainty lady-like moves.

Soon, I decided to
leave. She saw me to the door.

‘Goodbye, Eve.
Look after yourself,’ my eyes welled, I could have cried, but I
held myself, reaching out and giving her a hug, faint feminine
perfume from her body rose in my nose.

‘Oh, thank you
and take care of yourself, too,’ she was surprised by the hug
and caught the moisture in my eyes. ‘Are you okay? Would you
like me to fetch you,’ she added, with concern.

Fetch
, a
typically Singaporean expression, no doubt picked up during
hi
s
stay in Singapore.

‘I will be fine,’
I turned and left. The door closed behind me with a gentle shutting
sound. I was crying by the time I reached the elevator lobby, not
turning once to see Jay’s facial expression.