I will pick jasmines and araliya to take for mal pooja to the temple for my safe return. On Poya days the villagers all gather at the temple precincts to listen to bona, the sermons preached by the High Priest. I was like a prisoner in the house at Doha. Even Friday, which was meant to be an off-day there, was never granted to me. So I never had a chance of going out and meeting the other maids from my country. My loneliness grew greater and greater. There was no one to speak my language with, no one with whom to share my thoughts and feelings of homesickness. True, they looked after me, they protected me, but how long could I live locked up in their house where they did not want me to even open a window? They would shut the window immediately I opened it. I would weep from loneliness.

The greatest happiness that those people had was to go to the desert. They were free there, to drive out and sit under the date palms in an oasis, take off their heavy, constricting burqas, cook food out of doors. But I never liked the desert. I did not feel the same happiness that they felt. It was just white sand with little dunes, small trees, beginning to sprout, planted on small mounds. Since there was no path, no road, the car would jolt badly on the sand and I would feel sick. But, if I stayed back in the house to be alone, Menoor would also remain. She took a perverse delight in torturing me. As soon as the parents left she would take the little baby and twirl it round and round fiercely until the baby cried. Then she would complain to her mother that it was I who was responsible.

I loved that baby. I wanted to carry and look after it, pet it, but Menoor was jealous. She did not want anyone to show affection to me. She was disturbed in her mind. Very disturbed. Even in school they found it difficult to control her and would telephone home. No maid would stay because of her. The last maid had stayed for only two months.