So I remember: A young beautiful girl...so much younger than my mother, jumping out of my father's bedroom window. My eyes were only seven years old. But the memory is now 23 years older, very vivid with images intact like the reflection in my mirror. Her beautiful flowery dress that offered a generous display of her bosom, short kinky hair and a smile that would bring fireflies dancing around her in the dark of the night is all she had to earn a space or was it a place in that solemn room. My father's bedroom,where all my mother's clothes,shoes and handbags hung watching and waiting in silence. They must have had older eyes than mine.If only they could speak to my mother and bring her back from college! ( I later understood that her absence was because she was away in a College far far away from home). I missed her presence and everything about her.



The young and wild girl went by the name "Aunty" from the first day she set her feet in our house.See,everyone here is either called Aunty or Uncle, as long as they look like grown ups;and they all were. I was seven,my younger sister five and the youngest three, basically I was grown up too! She was Aunty,our house maid, house help, domestic manager... whatever title that suited her job description which included mainly: preparing all meals; washing us,utensils and our clothes,cleaning inside and outside the house and basically humming songs around the house in a language none of us could understand. She hailed from another village and community anyhow and didn't bother interpreting her songs or instructions. Her advise..we should move from town and live in the village to learn our...actually her mother-tongue. Hmm!



So, that very moment; I bolted from where I was feeding my puppy on little remains in my lunch box and into the house. I knocked my father's bedroom and when he opened, he was drenched in water... I think; and half-wrapped in a towel. I looked up at him and asked, " Why did Aunty jump outside your bedroom window instead of just using the door? You should have opened it for her because she would have fallen on my puppy and tore her dress. You know she will break her hands next time... then she won't be cleaning your bedroom... until mum returns."



If eyes could kill...I am dead from my father's glare and only my soul hovers around in wonder since then. If ears could burst from the words I heard, I would definitely be writing this in sign language. His response offended me to this date. Yet I'd seen it all, I could paint a picture of the entire event! Do you know what dad told me?