Molly

There is an elderly lady whom I see at ARC every time I go there. She is likely to be in her sixties and I've never spoken to her, but she makes me think of Molly. Like this lady, Molly was a Chinese girl who had been adopted by a Tamil family. It was a common practice in the 1950s, I think, but it was startling nevertheless to see a Chinese girl with a pottu on her forehead and speaking fluent Tamil.

Molly was my playmate, my go-to when I needed anything, my smuggler of treats, my story teller. She was also the reason my father first smacked me.

Molly must be in her late seventies now. When she worked as a domestic help for my family she was young, perhaps in her late teens or early twenties. I don't know when Molly started working for my family but she is as mixed up in my childhood memories as my mother is. My day would start with Molly coming to work and my first bottle of milk appearing. My day would end with me sitting with my feet sticking out of the long windows that faced the road, waving good bye to Molly and waiting till I saw my father's car turning into that same road. 

I can't remember exactly how old I was, perhaps 5, and one day, Molly did not come in the morning. My bottle of milk too did not come and instead I was told by my sister I should be drinking from a cup. I remember being sad, I'm not sure if I cried. But one day, my mother put on a nice sari and put a dress on me that I did not like. I remember I cried then, because of the dress. I cried throughout the car ride that followed, because of the dress, until we came to a temple. Molly was there! 

There was a huge crowd and I could only see Molly from a distance and she looked different because she was dressed in a sari that was as grand as my mother's. I remember being thrilled when my parents took me closer to her after what seemed like a long time. Molly was sitting on the floor beside a man, and when she saw me she reached out and pulled me into a hug. I didn't like the smell of the jasmine garland round her neck, I didn't like the roughness of her sari, I didn't like the man sitting beside her whom she made me turn my face and look at, but I liked that Molly was back. 

I remember Molly let me sit on her lap, but my mother made me get up. I remember Molly said I could stay, but my father said we had to leave. I remember Molly telling me not to cry, but my mother didn't care. I remember I cried more during the car ride back than I had cried before. I remember I refused to get out of the car when we reached home. I remember my father carried me out of the back seat. And then he smacked me. For the first time. Because I was crying for Molly.