She found different ways of tormenting me. One day she put water in the plate of rice Bossa madam served for me and I had to go hungry. Her mother beat her but she would never change. If Menoor was watching TV and I came in to join them, she would immediately switch it off. I used to sleep on the ground, and if she wanted to open or close the window near where I lay, she trampled my body as she walked towards it. I was not human to her. I did not have feelings. My pain of mind or heart meant nothing to her, or the fact that I was far from home, among strangers who belonged to a different culture, who spoke a different language. I could not even lie down on my mattress in peace at the end of a day’s work—all the bed clothes would be missing; or she would put ink on my pillowcase or dirty the sheets. She did not want me to rest even at night. She herself would not sleep for a long time. She would stay up, put on all the lights, sometimes until two o’clock in the morning, and disturb me. But no one cared.

No one could control her. She was restless, very mature for her age. All those young girls are very mature even at an early age. They marry young once they have attained age, and bear children. They are largely built and very attractive. Even with children they go to school. Menoor loved to take photographs of the Indians who used to come to wash the cars in the family home. It was an extended family that lived there, and there were twelve cars in the house. The young women were heavily veiled but when they wanted to attract the attention of the expatriate workers they would lift their veils and stick their tongues out at them. They were restless, perhaps because they married too young—their burqas were like prisons in which they dwelt, hidden away behind the coverings.