Free Maid In Singapore by Kishore Modak

Mary and asked for Ms
Goh. She had left and they did not have her contact details or any
meaningful leads for me to follow through. There was only one person
who could help me, Inspector Simon Tan.
    He was much less
trouble to locate.
    When I called him, he
recognized me easily, as soon as I mentioned my name. I mean, how
could anyone forget?
    ‘Mrs Rashmi
Kettlewood, it is nice to hear from you after so many years. Yes, I
do remember you and your family, I hope things are well at your end,’
he seemed pleased to hear from me. I, too, warmed with a smile,
taking in his voice before filling him in at my end.
    ‘Yes, I saw her
here in London recently and wanted to say hello, but I can’t
seem to find her contact details anywhere. Can you help?’
    ‘Sure. I can see
if I can dig up anything. It remains one of the strangest incidents
that I have come across in all these years,’ he replied.
    He took my details and
promised to email or call if he found anything.
    He did email, after a
week or so, giving me her number in London. It was a terrestrial
line, mostly of the residence she now served. It was frightening and
exciting at the same time. I thought about it, staring at it, doing
nothing for a few days, and then I called, opening the final chapter,
coming to the point that I wanted my son to understand.

Mum’s Journal, Part Three:
    Laughter

W henI finally called
Mary, it was past noon, when most households usually wind down before
the kids come home, after school.
    ‘Hello, my name
is Rashmi Kettlewood and I am looking for Mary. I believe she works
in your household,’ I asked, assuming that the mistress of the
manor had answered the phone.
    ‘Hello, yes, she
is here. May I please know what this is regarding, since she usually
receives calls on her cell phone,’ the lady’s hesitation
was valid, no-calls-for-maid s is a basic house rule
across the globe.
    What was I supposed to
say— Th e polic e coul d only trac e th e number o f he r current employe r ?
    ‘Well, I am an
old acquaintance from the past, trying to get back in touch with
Mary. I don’t have her mobile number and was only able to get
this number from my old agent. I am sorry to bother you,’ I
almost hung up.
    ‘You mean you
were her past employer?’ she cut me off.
    ‘Yes, I was, but
it was many years back.’
    ‘I wish you had
mentioned that. I will call her immediately, and it is no bother.
Just very nice of you to try and get back in touch with her,’
she kept the headset down, with scratchy electronic rustling and a
gentle thud. ‘Mary, Mary, there is a call for you,’ her
voice faded, as she receded away from the telephone.
    Stupid fool—she
was judging us by the politeness of a phone call, and concluding
decency of relationships, where only the fangs of strife existed.
    ‘Hello, I am
Mary,’ it was a familiar drawl, laden with a Filipino twang,
the one that we had desperately fought, before our son picked it up.
Other than that, the voice was respectful. She did not know who was
on the other end of the line. It was my last chance at aborting this
whim of senility; I missed my opportunity and went headlong into
conversation.
    ‘Hello, Mary.
It’s me, Mrs Rashmi Kettlewood,’ I simply announced
myself; there was a pause on the phone line.
    ‘Hello, mum. How
are you, mum? It had been so much time, mum,’ she was still
polite, which was a relief.
    ‘I am fine, how
are you?’ I, too, was courteous. Politeness is disarming, is it
not?
    ‘I am fine, mum.
Been here in London for one year, mum. Are you also in London?’
she asked.
    ‘Yes I am, and I
want to meet you, if that is okay. I have something of yours that I
want to return,’ best to draw her closer, before delving into
questions that had festered for so many years.
    ‘Mum, I can meet
only on Sunday, after church if you are free, maybe near St Paul’s,’
her tone was balanced, and she was ready to meet.
    We set a time for our
rendezvous, and exchanged a few more