You're Invited(19)

We drove by houses with high white walls guarding their secrets. We liked our walls in Colombo. Yes, they kept the other 99 percent out. But they also hid us away. Kept us safe.

“Who’s taking care of your place now?” Mahesh asked.

“Seetha is still here.”

“Seetha? Sha! Still, ah? I wish our servants were as loyal.” I tensed at the word. It was normal to call the household help “servants” in Sri Lanka, and I’d definitely get laughed at if I pointed out the political incorrectness of it to Mahesh, but of course the word choice made me uncomfortable. I get accused of this whenever I visit, though—starting from back when I was in university. Accused of being “woke.” Made fun of for applying an American context to words that meant something very different here.

Having someone help in the house was another completely normal part of living in Sri Lanka that never struck me as strange until I left. Men and women from the more rural areas of the country would seek employment as gardeners or housemaids in Colombo, often living with families for years. Upper-class Colombo ladies would love to boast about how well they treated their help and how they considered them to be a part of the family. I mean, they’d never make their actual family only enter the house from the back door and use a separate “servants’?” bathroom, but there I was, being woke again.

Still, it was true that I’ve never thought of Seetha as a servant. Housekeeper, perhaps, even though it was still quite a stretch. My father had employed her to run the house and take care of me after my mother died, and she had stayed on, working for those who rented the house while I was away. It was my only condition, actually, when letting the place out. My mother loved this house. It’s why I never sold it, even though I could probably make a killing off the land value alone. It was the last true part of her to exist. And Seetha is the only person I could trust not to have it erased.

Not that Seetha and I were close. Not that she ever filled the aching gap left behind when my mother died and my father had decided it was better I remained in Sri Lanka under the eye of a housekeeper than disrupt his new family’s life in England.

But there she was, standing on the open veranda that wrapped around my once-home, arms crossed, her lungi impeccably pressed, hair pulled back tight in a severe bun as always.

“Baba,” she greeted me politely when I got down from Mahesh’s jeep. I could be a hundred years old and she’d call me Baba—the Sinhala word for “baby,” which is how the help address the children of the house. I would never be the lady of the house to her.

Her hair was still stark black—she’d been dying it herself for years and would probably slap anyone who suggested she stop, but there were certainly a few extra wrinkles around her eyes, and she seemed frailer than I remembered.

“Hullo, Seetha. Kohomada?” How are you? I made to give her an awkward hug, but she pulled back and thumped me on the back instead. She wouldn’t risk appearing improper in front of Mahesh. Hugging a “servant” was just not done.

“Mahansi athi ne?” You must be tired, she replied, ignoring my question about how she was. Maybe it wasn’t Mahesh, then. More likely she still hadn’t forgiven me for sending her away the last time I was here. It was only for a few months, and I paid her salary in full the entire time, but she was bitter about it, just the same. I had thought five years would have been enough for her to let it go, but, well, if there’s one thing about Sri Lankans, it’s that we are certifiable experts at holding a grudge.

“A little bit,” I said, switching to English. Seetha spoke it better than most maids. I think it’s why my father hired her in the first place because it wasn’t like she was warm, or comforting. But she could communicate with him enough to give him weekly (or was it monthly?) updates about me. So he’d feel less guilty about having left my mother when she was sick and dying to restart his life back in England. That he made me stay here afterward, with a housekeeper as my only family.

Piyadasa had carried my bags to the veranda, and I looked over to Mahesh, who was typing something on his phone. He hadn’t gotten out, but he rolled his window down.

“You all set?” he asked.

“Yep. All good. Thanks so much, again, really.” I suddenly didn’t want him to leave. I didn’t want to be left alone in this house. Not after so long.

I wish I could have stayed at a hotel, but I knew I’d have to answer enough questions about where I’ve been the past five years as it is, and didn’t want to add to that list. Besides, Seetha would really never have forgiven me then. And a part of me did crave her forgiveness.

“It’s fine, men, I told you, no? And don’t worry. I’ll give you a call soon about that thing you asked me.” And with a wink, he was gone.

I hoped he’d come through.

Then it was me and Seetha, just like it had always been. Except before, I could escape to Kaavi’s if I got too lonely.

“So, you’re here for Kaavindi Baba’s wedding, no?” she said, picking up my bags as if they were empty and leading me inside.

“Yes, that’s right.” I don’t really know who Seetha spoke to or how word got around, but she had always been up to date with all the Colombo chatter. Then again, everyone except me seemed up to date with the chatter.

Seetha might have been angry with me, but true to her word, she had kept the house exactly as it had been. Just the way my mother left it.