She knocked gently on our door one bleary-eyed morning at 8 am and whispered in my ear ... seems the landlady told her i was looking for someone who'd do some of the chores. My heart skipped a beat. I can barely keep up a bed, let alone a 1½ room house. But i was still apprehensive as the last one started bunking so much that she started coming in less than once a week (much as i love bunking, i don't like being bunked on). She was also a little scary. She even frightened Joe a little, though he wouldn’t admit to it.

Gita is a Bangladeshi refugee. Her name, literally translated, means 'song'.

She works for my neighbour upstairs. A neighbour without a face and a name. She plays rough with her maid so i'd rather keep her faceless and nameless. For Gita's sake. She might not be able to read this, but maybe her children will one day.

She told me she was staying as a permanent house maid upstairs and that she needed to make more money as her brother at home was sick. Personally, i think its because she wants to elope with her man - the electrician who comes round to fix things up and whom she can't help flirting shamelessly with. There's something special goin on 'tween those two. And like an old maid i look on indulgently as he, from high up his ladder flirts back while fixing my burnt wires. Real Chemistry. or should i say, Electricity. My wires are happy and so am i.

My humdrum life has brightened up not a little because this little refugee bird breezed in with her cheery chatter and near-compulsive obsession with cleanliness. Her eyes glaze dangerously when tackling a particularly stubborn spot on the floor. Pardon me, Gita. I'm bigger (read: larger) than you, physically. But you're far from little when it comes to the things that count.

Joe and I knew it'd catch up on us sooner or later. Either our friends would mention it, or worse, any of our folks who’d come a-visiting. At first we'd talk about them. Hem. Haw. Fret. Fuss. And finally we discreetly shelved them aside...hoping they'd help themselves. And they did. Or rather, Gita did. And how. Seems they were the first things she noticed. She borrowed her boyfriend's ladder and rid our two fans of all the grime and smoke and ashes they'd been forced to wear for the better part of the year. As she gave each blade a thorough scrubbing while Joe and I balanced her rickety old ladder to keep her from toppling over (it was a classic piece this, with twine keeping the rungs together), I felt tempted to tell her that once, a bit of shit possibly did hit the fan. But i doubt if a bit of shit would stop Gita the Dynamo.

Separately, Gita and i can barely hold up a conversation in Hindi. But between her Hindi laced generously with Bangla and my half-mizo half-bengali half-baked Hinglish, we communicate perfectly.

I'd been so possessive of my solitude that i was a little nonplussed when I found that she couldn’t stop chattering. And its not all the time that i understand her. Gita, who smiled bashfully and turned a purple red when she met Joe for the first time, did nothing to hide her disapproval when she found me sleeping while she did the dishes. I guess she thought she could ‘snap me out of it' by chattering loudly. When that didn't work, she improvised - true to her name, by breaking loudly into song using the dishes as cymbals. I'd grunt and groan but wouldn't give in. So she'd make more noise by picking up shoes and, by way of arranging them, aim them at the shelf from three feet high. She'd 've aimed from a lot higher up had her horizons been less challenged. vertically.

I'd throw her a sly peeved peep from the corner of my eye. She'd catch it, grin and say "OooOOh Didi so rahi hai" and make mock attempts at keeping it lower. But this turned out to be far more excruciating because then she'd surprise you when you least expected it. But I was resolute. It now took three pillows to drown out her 'morning music'.

So Gita finally decided to address the sleeping elephant in the room directly. I braced myself, muttering under my breath that i wouldn't go down (or in this case, get up) without a fight. But i'd underestimated her. She's subtle. And oh is she sly! She said she was convinced that the mattress needed airing - up on the terrace. But because didi's so tired, would she mind shifting to the other room for a while? I fumed. I fretted. Turned my back to her and blinked furiously at the wall. I could feel a lump of tearful indignant anger choking me at the thought of every precious minute of sleep i had to give up. There is nothing the insomniac guards more jealously than her few winks of sleep in the morning. I felt like firing her. Felt like a stupid baby.

But i decided that two could play at the same game. So i asked her to air the mattress every day. It took a toll on us both. On the fourth day, i summoned the little (koff) dignity i had left and told her (quite self-righteously), that that was quite enough. That surely the sun was seeing more of my mattress than i was and so forth. Gita of course acquiesced. She knew she'd won and when to shut up. I've given up on sleep while she's around...which not surprisingly, has done wonders for my insomnia and acidity. I now breakfast nearly every second morning.

When i'd sunk myself so deep in my pathetic self-pitying misery that i stopped looking upward altogether, it was Gita who pointed out that we had cobwebs up on the ceiling. Gita who doesn’t blink an eye while I light up my nth cigarette and help myself to my nth glass of red, looks on protectively while i deal with every man who comes by the house in Joe’s absence...be it the newspaper guy or the milkman. The money I have to pay them even, has to first pass through Gita's hands. But not before she counts it again and hands it over...with an extra dose of 'suspicious' in her look. Gita who picks my clothes off the terrace and into her little bucket so they still have the smell of the sun in them. She’d sneak down to give them to me...footsteps of her Memsaab leaving the house still echoing on the stairs below. More than anything, I really think she enjoys her daily dose of espionage. She would love Agatha Christie. I should expand my Bangla-Hindi and try translating some of it for her.

I suppose it’s the solitude that makes me feel nurtured with Gita around.

And with results. Over the weeks ’ve become tidier. Alarmingly so. I’ve become this little kid all over again who can’t wait for mother to see the room clean for once. 've lain in wait this weekend for her to see the kitchen I’ve taken pains to tidy up. Its my little surprise for her. And also just to show her that this here lady can also do her bit of housework...some of the time. Can’t wait for her to look below the rice container on the shelf and see that ‘ve spread fresh newspaper on it.

've got to think of a fitting adjective that starts with a G, for her. And all I’ve come up with so far is Dynamic. I can’t very well call her Gynamic Gita as the word faintly suggests gyration and others, also gynae-related. Garrulous Gita? maybe. But that doesn’t do her justice enough. It has to have more spunk to it. Oh dear. There it goes again. The totally unintended pun .

I selfishly hope she doesn't save enough to elope too soon.

I also hope I can have the honour of becoming god-mother to her (future) children.

If I ever get so lucky, I’ll name the girl Thumbelina and the boy, Thumble. With their mother's permission, of course.