Late one night, on her way to the bathroom, Didibhai fell down the stairs of the house she had inhabited for close to sixty years. A sudden tumble. Her body sprang forward, the staircase blurred to teeth. Da-dump ta-tump thump. Down in the landing, she crashed into something. A flowerpot? A vase? Too dark to tell. A burst of sound went skittering, and her first hefty thought was, Oh no, I hope I didn’t break it!
There she lay, cheek to the floor, worrying about it. Not her hip, or her shoulder, or her knees, but an object external to her person. Something that didn’t belong to her. Something of value.
I hope they don’t kick me out, Didibhai thought next, because the house—her not-quite home, her only home—didn’t belong to her either. In many ways the opposite rang true: she belonged to the house. She had arrived there as a twenty-four-hours person back in ‘58, at the age of ten-ish. Cleaner, dishwasher, launderer, errand runner, masseur, hairdresser, house sitter, cook. Also, her favorite duty of all, ayah to three generations of children, the oldest of whom was retired now, several others at the peak of their careers—doctors, engineers, state officials, and whatnot—yet more at the helm of their own households, and, alas, one once-child who was now dead, carried off by the drink. An untimely death, people said, but Didibhai did not agree. She had seen it coming for years: bottles stashed behind the headboard, vomit stains in the sink. Death was seldom untimely.
For several hours she wasn’t discovered. It was too late, or possibly too early—what day of the week was it?—so Didibhai just lay there, face down, limbs akimbo. When the pain arrived, it throbbed down her skull and round her hip and up her legs. She had whacked her nose against something; it hurt like a bitch there, while her chin, also pummeled, hurt like a toad. She tried to move and found that she couldn’t. Her arms were trapped under her. Her legs shredded up. Then the pain climbed further, and it reminded her of all the other pain she had felt in her life: the jabs and smacks, the bashed-in tooth, the dog bite and heartbreak that seemed so far away, especially now, with this fresh new feeling in her body. Nothing fun, no—but noble. A warm salted saintly flourish. She lay there and bore it.
Pain built character, it was said, except Didibhai wasn’t interested in character-building, not anymore. She was too old for that sort of bid. Now it was all about dignity, self-reliance. Washing one’s clothes. Earning one’s place. Feigning deafness. Projecting strength. At her age, it all came down to this: commanding respect, demanding it.
Help! Didibhai cried, exactly once. Then she peed herself.
When the sun came up, it did so at a remove. Darkness clung to the stairwell. It was the paperboy’s arrival, his distinctive double-tap upon the doorbell—ding da-ding dong!—that finally woke the family.
Someone skipped up the stairs and started to scream and bolted back down. Aaaargh! There’s blood everywhere!
A second someone appeared. Didibhai, is that you? What are you doing there? Are you okay?
Soon the whole household came running. Brothers four through six, their children and grandchildren, spouses up and down, the bachelor grand uncle. They rubbed their eyes and parroted their shock. What happened? Oh my goodness! Call the doctor! Didibhai has fallen!
They loved her, or believed they did. An ayah was a sometime mother. A bosom at naptime, a self-cleaning diaper, a finger to grasp, a surrogate for thought. You owed her your life when you were a child. Later, as a grownup, you owed her nothing.
How did she fall? Is she alright? What is that smell? Ugh!
The other servants came, too, of course. There was work to be done. Towels were brought to staunch the bleeding, rags thrown down to soak up the blood.
Help her sit up, someone said. Someone with authority—but who? Didibhai couldn’t tell. She had trouble parsing all the voices. Up close, the floor revealed multitudes, no longer the dull cement she was used to wiping down, but something else: a mirror cut from rubies, a sky stuffed with stars. She was loath to leave it.
Slowly. There, just like that. Watch out for the glass! Careful, Khooki.
Glass. This was the first detail that registered. The vase, then. She had washed it out only a week ago.
More rags. A mop and bucket. A dustpan for the shards. Meanwhile the questions rained down. When did this happen? Why didn’t you wake us? The downstairs bathroom? At your age? Haven’t we told you to use the ones upstairs?
The great house was built in the old style, soaring three floors off the street. A central courtyard, wraparound balconies, a terrace with a parapet. Eight bedrooms for the family’s use, servants’ quarters in the mezzanine and attic. Of the house’s six bathrooms—western and eastern, attached and free—five were off limits to Didibhai’s ilk. Until recently, that is. Something had changed, but what? She leaned against the bannister, blinking.
You’re like family! they told her. Our own flesh and blood.
But no, Didibhai had no family, not since she was a little girl, a child of the hill country: hot open summers, rains that cut through rock—
Can you hear us? Would you like some water?
—the villagers hunted boar for meat, long lines of them carrying fire into the forest, banging tin drums in unison to flush out their prey—
How about some food? A biscuit?
—a mother with swollen feet, a father who liked to pray—
You’re still bleeding. Let’s keep your nose pressed.
—she was one of eight, smack in the middle, member of a barefoot train that ran through the fields and washed at the river and tucked each other into bed—
Any word from the doctor? Well, call him again! Tell him it’s urgent!
—joy came easy back then. Flowers by the wayside, sugar off her fingers, comb through her hair, marbles in the dirt—
What are you looking at? Why are you smiling? Didibhai, you’re scaring us!
She saw them gathered about her. Heard them, too. The worry in their faces, the pep in their tongues. There was confusion at first. Then there wasn’t. Dimly, then emphatically, she understood what was required of her.
Settle down, everyone. It’s story time! she declared.
It was an old skill, a handy one. Racking her brain, Didibhai summoned the tale of Sirajul Haq, the neighbor from way back when, the one who collected honey in the hills. A dark, thin man who reeked of smoke, whose limbs were puckered with bee stings. He would leave at dawn, return before sundown. But one day he didn’t return, not at dusk, not even at midnight. The next morning a search party was sent out. They found him in the forest, half his face shorn off, his arms scoured to semolina bits. Mauled by a leopard. Nibbled at my jackals. He was still alive, thank goodness. The wounds took months to heal, his left eye closed up completely, while his face became lumpy, botched, pink: an ugly cloud at sunset.
It could happen to you, too, Didibhai said, if you stay out too late.
What are you talking about? they cried. This is bad. This is really, really bad.
The doctor arrived and was ushered upstairs. There were doctors in the family, too—doctors who had been infants once, who had cried and slept and fed and vomited in Didibhai’s arms—but they all lived far away now. Other cities, other states. The doctor who stopped in was the neighborly sort. The next available local.
Ma, can you hear me? Open your mouth, please. Now your eyes. How many fingers do you see?
You look like my husband, Didibhai said.
The resemblance was uncanny, really. The same bushy eyebrows. That wattle at the throat. Those teeth stained brown, lodged like pebbles in his gums. She was nine-ish on her wedding day, nine-ish years old when she saw him through the veil, across that column of ghee smoke, both of them coughing. Later, in bed, he had plunged into sleep right away—he snored like an old man; he was an old man—while she was left to sniff the tuberoses.
Try to focus! Listen to doctor babu! It’s for your own good!
My dowry was two chickens and a billy goat, Didibhai said.
Her husband didn’t live long. She was a little girl one week, a little bride the next, a little wife for a little bit, a little widow after that—
She’s lost a lot of blood, the doctor said.
He gave Didibhai a nasal pack: a gauze doused in foul-smelling goo. She sneezed it out at once.
—they peeled off her bangles, dressed her all in white. Dispossessed, they called her. Rotten forehead, ashen luck. A year later, when her blood came, they shed their pity and called her a whore—
Mothers covered their children’s ears. Others gasped.
We need to move her, the doctor said.
Right away they complied. On the count of three! One! Two! Three—
When they lifted Didibhai up, a hot invisible fire gushed at once through her body. Hips, elbow, ankles, knees, fury leaped from all of it. Gone was the tenderness, the fear. Now she snarled and raged and spat, became the leopard in her tale.
Get your filthy hands off me!
Have you lost your mind? they cried. Didibhai, please, we’re only trying to help!
He never touched me, you know. A good man. Old, yes—but good! Nothing like the rest of you!
We need to sedate her, the doctor said.
The gloves snapped on, the needle drank its fill. Didibhai did not feel the jab in her arm. Or perhaps she felt it but did not react. She was elsewhere already, gone far enough, drifting toward that other place: the storytime place, the place without time, story without place. After she went limp, they scooped her up off the landing and carried her downstairs, ankle first, head propped up, and laid her down upon the daybed—another luxury that was usually off limits. There was no time to strip the sheets. No time to unfurl an oil cloth, even.
A second needle pierced Didibhai’s skin. The IV began its drip, drip, drip.
She looks like the woman on the moon, said one of the children.
They freshened her up as she lay asleep: eased her out of her blood-piss clothing, fetched warm soapy water to wipe her down. They combed her hair and cut her nails and dressed her bruises and washed her feet. The family did the easy stuff, the servants did the rest. And the doctor did what he could, too: stuck a balloon catheter up her nose, which was dripping blood even now.
I’m going to prescribe an anti-hypertensive just in case, the doctor said. She’ll probably need a blood transfusion, too.
He pulled out his prescription pad. Name, please?
Didibhai, they told him.
Didibhai is not a name.
They looked at one another. Of course it wasn’t.
It’s like a nickname, they explained. But that wasn’t quite right either. In fact, it was a nonsense word. A staple of the culture. A word that read, literally, sisterbrother. She was sister to some, brother to others, sibling to them all—but wait! How did that work? Why had no one noticed it before?
What about a surname? the doctor asked.
Again, the family drew a blank.
She’s been with us since…the sixties? The fifties! She’s basically family.
Shall I use the family name then? Impatience edged the doctor’s voice.
The family considered this, decided it wouldn’t be right.
Hey doc, why not just leave it blank?
The doctor looked appalled. This is a medical prescription. I cannot do that.
A delegation was dispatched to the attic then, to Didibhai’s room beneath the rooftop water tank. Walls peeling paint, a curtain for a door. Her cabinet was opened, the contents picked apart. A small metal box was discovered, a gold necklace inside it; or possibly it was gold-plated. Also idols, trinkets, plus ten-thousand rupees in cash—her life’s savings, probably. No documents were found, however. Nothing that revealed Didibhai’s name.
No ration card? No voter ID? the doctor said. How did she get on? Seriously, what was she doing all these years?
Taking care of us, the family replied.
The doctor stood up, gathered his things. In that case.
Hands were shaken, money changed hands. It came from the family coffers, though the alternative—tapping into Didibhai’s savings—did cross several minds. The woman had no children, no bills to pay, no expenses. What was the point of hoarding all that cash?
You should take her to the hospital, the doctor said.
The family said nothing.
Didibhai came to around lunchtime.
Are you hungry? they asked her. Thirsty? Can you try sitting up?
She found that she could. She could stand, too—which seemed miraculous. She staggered to her feet to scattered applause.
Bathroom, she said, so that’s where they led her. Not the servants’ bathroom but one of the fancy ones: swan-necked faucets, a bidet made in France.
Once inside, Didibhai locked the door and hobbled to the mirror, where she saw herself for the first time since her fall. Her hair tied back. Her sari returned to white. Her torso felt familiar, too: bent by time into the shape of a question. But her face! Her face was a horror. A tomb. Eyelids sagging like molten wax, jowls of eggplant purple. The earth seemed to be pulling at her, calling her to itself.
Come, my child. It’s time.
A bandage covered Didibhai’s chin; that’s the first thing she pried off. Underneath, her jaw was a smudge of blood and pus. Ugly cloud. She wanted to cry, wanted to laugh. She snorted at her fate. That was when she noticed the tube, dangling from her nose, right there in front of her. She grabbed at it and pulled. Something clicked, then popped out of place.
Didibhai? they called through the door. Are you almost done?
She didn’t respond but gripped the tube tighter, wrapping it around her wrist. She yanked with all her pluck. A trickle of something pooled in her mouth. Salty, metallic. In three great tugs she pulled the whole catheter out: tube, balloon, all of it. It didn’t belong there. It was slowing her down.
Didibhai? Can you hear us? How’s it going in there?
There was knocking next, then the knocks became bangs, then slams and screams and kicks and so forth, until the door was broken down. They found her on the floor, curled up in the corner closest to the drain, the corner that was easiest to clean. She lay once more in a puddle of her blood.
That crazy witch! they said.
That insane woman!
Who does she think she—
It’s like she actually wants to—
Well, fine, then! Let’s just leave her—
They did not leave her, though. Instead, they lifted her up and carried her to the daybed once more. Again, they cleaned her up. Again, the doctor was called. The same doctor.
You didn’t take her to the hospital, he said.
A second catheter was put in. This time no sedative was required. By now, Didibhai’s breaths had begun to shallow. Her eyes drew shut for good. They performed CPR on her; the doctor first, and then one of the teenagers, a budding surgeon who had watched many videos on the internet. He tried the new technique first, pumps to the ribs, and then the old one—lip to lip, the kiss of life—before the boy’s mother cut in.
Enough! Go wash your mouth.
The doctor took out his pad. Did you find out her name? he asked, without urgency.
No, doc, they said. Shall we make something up?
The doctor said nothing. He looked toward Didibhai, then down at his feet. He stuck a finger in his ear and wriggled. He seemed to be waiting for something, waiting for permission, waiting for a sign, while Didibhai’s breaths grew shallower still.
Do you need anything, doc? A cup of tea? Some toast? She’s going to be okay, won’t she? That was the last of the questions before the doctor called for silence.
The fans whirred. The children fidgeted. Before the hour was out, everyone understood what was happening. It mesmerized them. The servants were the first to leak tears, then the family joined in. Their love welled up like never before. But maybe it wasn’t love so much as pity, sorrow, fear, the sudden awareness that this day would come for each of them, too. Youth wouldn’t protect them. Wealth wouldn’t either. Nothing in the world could keep them from this. For the final minutes they gathered around the daybed, bending at the waist, kneeling on the floor, cooing, sniffing, heaving, praying, clinging to Didibhai as she rose and fell, fell and rose.
Contributor Notes
Po Bhattacharyya is a writer and designer from Kolkata. His work has appeared in the Northwest Review, the Johannesburg Review of Books, the New York Times, and elsewhere. He was awarded a First Book Residency from Tin House in 2023. He currently lives in Austin, where he is an MFA candidate in fiction at the New Writers Project.
