‘My Name is Not Malini’: Read Shehan Karunatilaka’s story from his new collection of short fiction

‘When the baba likes you more than the mama, it becomes a big problem. Much worse than when the husband starts giving you the look.’

The housemaid in salwar kameez speaks in the patronizing tone of a schoolteacher. The other three maids are reluctant students of this lecture. One wears jeans, one a frock, the other a glittering gown. Gown, the only one without children in her care, is asleep on the couch by the window. The window overlooks a desert filled with lights. ‘How’s your family?’ Salwar asks Jeans. ‘They must be decent, no?’

It isn’t the first question to be greeted with a silence that evening. But that doesn’t deter Salwar from her monologue. She is a cook, babysitter, and part-time gardener in her fifties, making her the oldest in the room by two decades. ‘Don’t know if this one understands,’ she points her head to the Filipino maid in a frock. The Filipino wears headphones and has sleeping twins on her lap, one head per thigh. Salwar turns her face to the closed door and the music seeping through its corners. ‘They shouldn’t have parties like this, even in a compound. If neighbours call the holy police, everyone in trouble.’

‘Go away, Jojo’, says the toddler to Salwar. He knocks down the tower he’s been building with his blocks and slaps her hand when she tries to clear the rubble. ‘Okay, patiya. You play, okay?’ She chuckles and looks from Jeans to Frock to Gown.

‘He jokes with me. Loves me. More than the A.M.M.I. Don’t worry. He can’t understand Sinhala. Father gives no attention. To him or the mother. Luckily, I’m not so pretty anymore. Or might become big problem. I’m sure your sir doesn’t bother you?’

The maid in jeans sighs and removes the bottle from the toddler she is feeding. ‘Please. Can you not talk? Baba needs to sleep.’

Four of them are squeezed into a children’s room while outside a Sinhala and Tamil New Year party rages. The evening was presented to the compound owners as a cultural event, and the guests are mostly Lankans, with a smattering of locals. The apartment is large and crowded and smells of cardamom, cumin, perfume and sweat. The gathering has secured a liquor permit for traditional Sri Lankan wine, even though no such thing exists. The gathering is segregated along gender lines, as is everything on this side of the desert, and most guests have left their children and maids at home.

The room’s décor also appears to be bisected by gender. One wall is ocean blue and features postcards of cars and superheroes. It faces a pink wall with pictures of ponies and Disney mice. The host children have been in bed since 8 pm and have left instructions that none of their toys be touched. This was conveyed to each maid via the host maid, a stern young European who preferred to be referred to as an au pair.

‘Your family is Sri Lankan, no?’ asks Salwar.

The maid in jeans eyes her and nods.

‘Must be rich. To be working here and affording help. My family is from Lebanon. They take me all over. I’ve been on a yacht, been to Marrakesh, been to New York. Someone has to look after baba while husband and wife are fighting, no?’

She laughs and receives another glare from Jeans. ‘Don’t worry. Your baba won’t wake. I know how children sleep. This one is my twelfth child.’ The boy is bored of the coloured blocks and is pulling toys that do not belong to him.

‘Aney baba, please don’t. That sudu aunty will scold. Shall we colour this nice picture?’ Jeans regards the older woman ‘You call us “Help”. That’s a very nice word. Better than servant.’

‘But not as nice as au pair.’

Salwar is pleased to finally get a response from her fellow Lankan.

Jeans points her nose at the sleeping maid in the gown and high heels. ‘If that monkey keeps snoring, I swear I will throttle her.’

Jeans’ voice is gruff and masculine unlike Salwar’s ascending screech. Salwar is pleased with Jeans’ contempt for the African maid. Nothing brings Lankans together like a spot of shared prejudice.

‘What the hell is she wearing?’ says Salwar. ‘Thinks she’s Cinderella?’

Jeans gives a half-smile and says nothing.

‘I’ve been looking after this one since he came from his Ammi’s bandi,’ says Salwar picking up the blocks. Her toddler is now maiming a colouring book with crayons. ‘How long have you been in the gulf ?’

Jeans strokes the baby’s head and says nothing.

‘You are much better than the last one they had. Real number that one. Mad about men.’

‘Shh!’ says Jeans as her toddler stirs. ‘Please, Akka.

Better not to talk. Don’t know who is listening. I just want to go home without anything bad happening.’

‘Ah, you’re fresh. You get used to this place. Three years now. Ask me anything. I can advise.’

Jeans greets the unsolicited offer with a shake of her head.

Outside is a blast of voices singing a familiar tune about legendary pescatarian Suranganie and her adventures in seafood delivery.

‘My God. They’re singing baila? Haven’t heard Sri Lankan music in a long time,’ says Salwar. ‘Are you finding it hard here? It takes some time. But you get used to it.’

‘I’m just here for a year.’

‘What we all say.’

‘What time do they give to eat?’ Jeans places the infant in the cot and opens out a net.

‘What’s that gadget?

‘A food cover that we use as a mosquito net,’ says Jeans.

‘My madam is petrified of dengue and zika. And she’s stingy.’

‘Don’t say bad things about your madam or your sir.’

‘Why? Are you going to sneak?’

‘Someone might,’ says Salwar, looking from Frock to Gown. ‘Anyway. You must be thankful to them.’

‘For what? They use me. They call me Malini because…’

‘That was the last one’s name.’

‘Saying their two-year-old will get confused.’

‘Get over it. I got a different name at every house I worked.’ ‘That is very sad Akka. I’m only doing this for a year. Here. Pass this one to that one.’

Jeans picks up the plate by the cot, takes a cutlet and a kokis and hands it to Salwar. Salwar takes a cutlet and a kawum and clicks her fingers at Frock, who is stroking the hairs of her sleeping twins and nodding to music that only she can hear.

The Filipino in the frock sports her countryman’s trademark grin and the two Lankan maids smile back as if starring in a commercial for the national carrier of Sri Lanka, responsible for flying 40,000 housemaids to these parts each year. Salwar passes the cutlets.

‘Hungry?’

The Filipino takes off her headphones and smiles.

‘Beg pardon?’

‘You hungry?’ asks Salwar in English. Frock smiles and shakes her head. ‘No, thank you!’ She plugs her ears.

‘Spoiling the market,’ says Salwar to Jeans ‘These ones work for cheap, and they have English also. And even if you beat them, they smile.’

Jeans walks to window to take in the view. ‘I miss home every day,’ she says.

A bell rings, and laughter follows. When the door opens, noise fills the room. The conditioned air is cool, but the hot smell of the red desert is inescapable. The infant and the twins stir, while the maid in the gown continues her throaty snore. The toddler looks up from his blocks as the host family maid barges in. No one sees him put the tiny red brick in his mouth and spit it out.

A European au pair isn’t seen often in these parts. Like many Caucasian women, the host maid wears a sari badly. She also wears an expression as blank as the one worn by the Sri Lankan Ambassador to this kingdom, when questioned by a journalist on the rate of suicides among Sri Lankan maids.

‘You come serve now. One by one please. Looks like everything is getting delayed.’

‘Can you close the door please. All the babas will wake,’ says Jeans.

‘This not my problem. Quick someone go. Go serve now.’

Salwar asks her toddler to play hide and seek as she looks in the direction of dinner. It has been two hours since she fed the boy and ten since she fed herself. The boy calls out.

‘Where you going, Jojo?’

‘Malini, can you watch my one?’ says Salwar. ‘That’s not my name.’

Excerpted with permission from The Birth Lottery and Other Surprises, Shehan Karunatilaka, Hachette.