#VeryShortStories2

Day after day, she came into Flat 8 at almost 11 am, and let herself out of the flat 45 minutes later. 

For those 45 minutes, she whirled around like a tornado: cleaning, sweeping, rearranging, putting back, dusting, possessions that were not her own, that she could probably never afford! She repeated this feat on five floors, seven times each day. In this building alone.

Her work was spotless, her reputation sterling! So all those flat-owners, her “masters and mistresses” in absentia, trusted her with their house keys, their messages to the watchman or postman, their errands from corner shops, the bakery, the flour mill, the laundry. She was general factotum-cum-secretary to several ladies of the building,

Shantabai was one of a dying breed in the city – trusted housemaids whose existence meant the ladies who worked jobs to ensure the mortgages on their flats were paid regularly had the luxury to keep their jobs going!

Until last week. Thursday afternoon, to be exact. For that’s when Shantabai’s overworked, 36-year-old heart gave way, the strong-willed, square-jawed Amazon was felled by a cardiac incident on the landing between the third and the fourth floor. Discovered by conscientious delivery-men, she was transported to a clinic. 

Anxious visitors, well-dressed ladies congregated at the clinic, milling around, not knowing who to speak to! One question was paramount in their minds – when would she resume her duties?

            Their interest gradually waned. By the fifth day, no-one from the building was around, not                   even the watchman, to see the ambulance drive off, followed by a lamenting group—                           Shantabai’s husband and two kids being consoled by various aunts and uncles and cousins. (274 words)