The Silent Backbone

The sari she wears has no starch. Her legs are cracked, her mouth stained with pan juice, spitting as she walks to her next flat. The old Nokia phone is hidden somewhere, trapped between the loose, thin wraps of her frail body. She is the didi — the unseen backbone of the modern Indian household.

She is silent inside the flats, yet she notices everything. She is not the gossiping kind. Today she was late to reach flat no. 202. The couple who lived there were amiable, she knew, but she disliked keeping anyone waiting. As she entered, she found the house in disarray, the leftovers of a late-night party scattered about. The couple were still asleep. Quietly, she began her chores — she never needed instructions. When the lady of the house finally emerged, she asked, as always, for a hot cup of tea. But today the maid noticed something else: bruises hidden carefully beneath the woman’s clothes. She kept her silence, finished her work, and moved on to flat no. 206.

There, four men shared the flat. She knew each room would tell a different story, yet she never complained. They paid well and, in return, never objected to her presence. Mondays always carried new tales. Today, however, she was surprised to see a girl in the flat. She asked no questions. She tucked her sari tighter and cleaned the smelly rooms, the dustbins overflowing with condoms. The girl was silent, not scared — her eyes never met the maid’s. Both women knew, but neither spoke. Before leaving, the maid placed a hot cup of tea before the girl. No words, no demands. Just silent acknowledgment. She left with a heavy heart.

At noon, she returned to her hut — a small space shared by four. Her husband lay bedridden. She brought him the same bottle of liquor he demanded, for she knew that without it, his anger would rise and the familiar cycle would repeat. She had been taught that men are the anchors of women’s lives, and so she bore her duty — keeping him alive, even at the cost of herself. Her silence followed her home too. Somewhere along the way, she had learned that outbursts changed nothing.

In the evening, she moved on to flats no. 210 and 222, each carrying its own story.
In 210 lived a joint family, traditional to the core. The bahu, adorned in jewels and rich saris, smiled politely, her silence shimmering like her ornaments. The maid and the bahu shared one truth — silence. Yet one lived free, and the other in a golden cage. Which one was which, the maid often wondered. Sometimes the bahu waited for her to speak, to break the silence, but nothing was said.

Flat no. 222 was different. A modern household — a strong, independent woman lived there with her sons. She was lively, outspoken, and treated the maid like a friend. She was the only one who ever called her by name. The maid often lingered there longer than necessary, drawn by the woman’s warmth. But today, the iron lady was withdrawn, her usual spark dimmed. Her bedroom was in disarray, unlike her. Something was wrong, the maid sensed. She wanted to ask, to reach out, but silence held her back. She left, letting the woman fight her battles alone.

As she left for the day, it was nightfall. She was not afraid of the darkness — but of the unseen things within it.

In the corridor she joked with the lift-wala, sharing a piece of her paan patta. He was her old friend, the one who always told her which flats needed maids — The Didi without whom, the new Indian family would not survive.

Are we all like the maid? We see, we know, but we stay silent. Have we turned resilience into detachment — carrying the strength to endure, but not the courage to speak?