I was ten, or maybe eleven or twelve—I don’t know. My mother doesn’t remember my birthday or year, so I cannot say for sure how old I was when I joined the Aroras as domestic help, a maid, a servant. I left my hometown, a village near Kolkata, the crown jewel of Eastern India, and moved to a small town in the North where the Arora family lived in a house with two bedrooms, two bathrooms, and a drawing room. The kitchen was a small but separate room with an uneven floor. Around the modest house were open grounds on three sides, almost devouring the little abode of three—now four—people.

The Aroras owned a car which needed at least one shove to start. My mom worked in my Madam’s mother’s house. You could say maid-ness ran in the family. My Madam was a short, skinny woman, but only a fool would mistake her petiteness for weakness. Her small, brown eyes were quick to turn fiery red—at her husband, her daughter, the extended family who dropped by unannounced. Madam had to serve hot meals to all guests, make sleeping arrangements for them, all while listening to them complain about how small her house was.

The Aroras’ extended family made me miss my own—my mom and six siblings, two brothers and four sisters. I imagined what they were up to as I worked in the Arora kitchen next to Madam (I could never really think of her as “Aunty,” though she emphasized I call her that), learning to cook dal makhani, dum aloo, and thin, round rotis.

Outside the kitchen, I cleaned the house—broomed and swept the stone floors, sprayed the three large mirrors with soapy water, and wiped them with newspaper. (Supposedly, newspaper was the trick to spotless mirrors, but it never worked for me.)

I got along well with the seven-year-old daughter of the house, a sweet, simple girl who loved to play. She had long, dark hair that I oiled and braided every day while she laughed, complained, and didn’t sit still. Every afternoon, we played for two hours after she got back from school. In the evening, she would sit with her homework while I worked in the kitchen with her mother.

I did this for three years—until I started my period. It so happened that I, and let’s call the daughter Lena, started to bleed a few months apart. We both used cloth but didn’t know how to dispose of the soggy articles after use. These things weren’t spoken of, not even with Madam. So, we wrapped the used cloth in the newspaper we used for mirrors and tossed it into the open gutter outside the house.

On those days, I longed for my elder sister, whom I heard was pregnant with her second child. I spoke with my mom and a few sisters for a few minutes every month. The STD—the subscriber trunk dialing—was expensive, I was told. I talked as fast as I could while Lena giggled beside me and Madam kept a keen eye on the clock next to the telephone.

My two brothers, Mom said, were interning at a mechanic’s shop. They were twelve and fourteen—old enough, she insisted on helping with the rent and feeding the family. My father, who spent all his money drinking and fighting, had left us nothing. “Good riddance,” Mom commented when he passed away from consuming adulterated alcohol.

I wanted to tell her about my womanhood milestone, but I said nothing. It hardly felt like the right time or place. I caught the reddish glint in Madam’s eyes and ended the call quickly. I had been on the receiving end of her slaps and tried my best to avoid them. I didn’t feel too bad about it—she didn’t spare anyone. She slapped Lena when she wouldn’t drink the milk given to her in a tall glass twice a day to help her “grow tall.” “Do you want to be short like me?” Madam would scold her. I once even saw her toss a slipper at her husband for not making enough money to pay Lena’s school fees.

I felt for Madam. At times, I felt for myself. I felt for Lena, too. You see, I was an emotional kid who longed to go back home. I didn’t know when that would be, but I often imagined hugging my mom and sisters, all of us sharing a big meal, huddled together.

I had no official contract. Every summer, Madam would visit her father in Kolkata—with Lena and me in tow. Madam would hand a bunch of cash to my mother—I assumed it was my salary—and I would live with them until Lena’s summer break ended. We would return to the small northern town with long faces, none of us really wanting to return to real life.

But that fourth summer, I refused to go back.

I was a good cook and knew how to serve guests. I could find work in Kolkata, earn money, and maybe—just maybe—keep some for myself. I could be free.

Now, in my own house, I slept with my mom, brothers, and sisters, all packed into one room. The kitchen was 500 feet away. The toilet was a tin-covered space outside. I shrugged off the smallness of the house—I was home, with my family.

After a month of enjoying home life, I told Mom I wanted to find work to help her.

“Work? You’ve worked enough for others, Seema. It’s time to let go.”

My eyes widened. I’m sure they looked like the teacup saucers Madam reserved for special guests.

Mom was saying I didn’t need to work?

“But what will I do? I can’t go back to school. I only know a little bit of the alphabet—what Lena taught me.”

“It’s time to marry and have your own family,” Mom said gently, stroking my head.

I shut my mouth and suppressed a shudder. “Marry?” I managed. “I’ll just be a servant to my mother-in-law and husband.”

“You’ll do for your family what you did for Madam. You’ll clean your house, cook for your husband and children. It will be your house. You won’t be a servant.”

“But Madam paid me—or rather, you—for my work. I want to make my own money.”

Mom slapped me.

“I have a nice man for you. You’ll marry him in two months,” she said.

So I got married.

Now I do the same work—in my own one-room house with a tiny kitchen. I cook. I clean. My husband doesn’t drink. He’s a clerk at the post office. A simple man with a simple wage. My mother-in-law is a stern old woman and is happiest when I massage her feet. I cook for all of us. The aloo dum I learned from Madam is a hit.

Any time now, I know I’ll get pregnant. I wonder whether it will be a boy or a girl. My husband says he wants only one child—he wants to educate them.

I wonder what kind of future that child will have. Will she be free?

I ask myself: if I have a son, do I want him to marry a woman who will massage my feet?

I don’t know what I want.

But I have hope—that they will be happy.