Monday Morning

He came in, wiping his dirty chappals on the prickly blue welcome mat. He wanted to leave a good impression, he wanted this job. He had got a better offer from the Hindu family down the road but he had turned them down. He wanted to chauffer this pink and white Parsee lady with her fair nape peeking out from under her short coffee brown hair.
He perched himself on the edge of a straight backed chair in the dining room, buttocks clenched, rubbing his hands against the cheap synthetic material of his trousers in a mixture anticipation and anxiety. What would he do if he was refused? Padma would surely kick up a fuss. He could imagine her yelling in her shrill voice, her small shrewd eyes filled with hate as she cursed her stars for landing her with this good for nothing dreamer instead of a real husband. Padma, with her papery brown skin, rough hands, big child bearing hips yet barren womb and that smell- a combination of ghee, masalas, hair oil camphor and incense. Involuntarily he gave a shudder; it was this smell that repulsed him the most. That, and her nagging voice. Many a times he had stood behind her as she yelled in her nauseatingly high pitched voice at the emaciated young boy who sat behind the ration shop counter, filling in for his father, for cheating her out of a few rupees.
Just then she came fluttering in, bringing in with her a trail of rose water and vanilla essence. She looked like the sort of women who luxuriated in bathtubs, like those models in soap ads. His own wife preferred a brisk bucket bath. She wore a dress, one with a silk sash and small green flowers. He was having trouble breathing. Here she was, the woman of his most decadent fantasies. So close that he could extend his arm and touch her if he wanted. Her skin, he imagined, would be velvety to touch. Soft, smooth and firm. He was shaken out of his reverie by the sound of her voice. She spoke so softly he had to strain his ears to hear her. Such a cultured polite tone; he felt his arms go slack against his knees.
Was he willing to come six days a week, Tuesdays off? Yes, he replied, nodding his head, curiously mindful of his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down as he swallowed. Good, she gesticulated with those graceful hairless arms of hers, he would start work Monday morning and he would have to be there sharp at 9 am, Sir was apparently a stickler for punctuality.
He had forgotten about the husband. What was he like? The cook had mentioned earlier that he was an engineer. An engineer! This lady looked the sort who read Keats and listened to Mozart on her tiny wireless. What could she be doing with a dry, prosaic engineer of a husband? Could they also have a relationship like the one he shared with his wife? Tolerating each other with barely concealed disgust. Besides, he didn’t want to drive for this Bawaji, he wanted to sit at the driver’s seat and watch her pale face from the rearview mirror as she stared out of the window. Where all would she go, he wondered? Probably to fashionable ladies’ tea parties and the races. He would take her to those posh beauty salons where she would have her dainty hands and feet fussed over by men with blonde hair. Maybe she even had a secret lover, a tall fair one who quoted poetry and played with her silky hair. He would drive her to their love nest and she would look at him with grateful eyes as he’d stare impassively ahead. Just thinking about her with another man made his insides warm.
He looked up; she was tapping her manicured nails on the lacy tablecloth. He expected it was the signal for him to take his leave. Thank you, he said, getting up and folding his hands in a polite gesture. She smiled, her small rosebud mouth blossoming along her pristine cheeks. He tripped over the chair as he staggered backwards. Cheeks flaming, he mumbled an apology and left. It was cold outside, the cutting wind felt good against his burning cheeks. He breathed in the invigorating air deeply and smiled to himself. What was he going to do till Monday morning?