There was so much more I wished I could know. These letters were merely a handful of stars in the entire universe of her heart. But it was too late. If only I could have understood before it was too late.
Dear Kumari,
When I held you as a baby, close to my skin, and looked down into your eyes, I saw everything I loved and everything I feared. Within them, I saw the sunset over the Sri Pada （there’s a story about this! Keep reading and you’ll find out!）。 I saw rivers and waterfalls at dusk （this too!）。 I saw my own mother’s eyes, and myself, walking beside her through the rice plantations at the end of the day. I saw peppers laid out in rows to dry in the sun, and steaming meals with lemon-grass and cardamoms and cinnamon. I saw my sister’s eyes, all those years ago, when she would laugh with so much glee （you remind me of her, Kumari）。 I saw the dress I wore on my wedding day and your father’s smile and his arms around me as we danced.
I also saw your future. This made me afraid.
In the house where I now live there is a garden and in that garden there is a small wooden boat. The boat is from far away, because there is no sea nearby. We are in the city, a very old city, with four old gates that are so big they look like they were made for giants.
I look after a baby girl called Aliki, who is two years younger than you.
Kumari, the garden is such a special place. A place that reminds me of who I am. It has an orange tree （like the ones back home, except sweeter）， a cactus with prickly pears, lots of flowers, and a chicken pen. I wish you were here to see it. I’ve drawn pictures for you in this journal! You would love the chickens. They are so funny. One of the hens always manages to get out of the pen. She comes into the living room when we forget to close the door. She sits under the coffee table and watches TV with us. I make sure my boss doesn’t see her so that she doesn’t throw her out. Sometimes the hen comes up to bed with me, crawls under the duvet as if it’s a paper bag, and talks to herself. She has feathers that grow over her eyes so she can’t see much, but she doesn’t seem to mind.
By the time you are old enough to read this you will probably know all this stuff already, but I need to write it down so that I can feel close to you when I’m alone.
When I first arrived here, I could hear you crying. You might find it hard to believe, but it was you that I heard, I know that now. I thought it was a young child in another house, but then I realised that the sound was coming from the earth, the trees and the sky, that you were sending it to me as a gift. Kumari, somehow, you found a way to send me your tears. So, I sat in the little boat in the garden and sent you stories and love through the night sky.
You didn’t get to know your father. I am sure you would have loved him as much as I did. I will tell you about him – although I’m sure your acci will tell you plenty as you grow up.
Your acci won’t mention this because she doesn’t like to talk about it, but life can change in a second. From sunlight to sudden rain, just like the weather during the monsoon when the rain comes down like the sea. But one thing your father always said was that rain doesn’t last for ever, and when the sun shines again everything will gleam. He was an optimist.
Your father should have been an actor. He did impressions of people and animals, flicked his hand when he spoke, had a twinkle in his eye. In real life, he worked in the gem mines, that’s where we met! He went down into the dark while I cleaned the gravel in the reservoir to find the gems.
I have so much to tell you. But be patient. Reality and truth need time to unravel.
Acknowledgements
I have so many people to thank for helping me to understand more deeply the sensitive issues I was researching in order to create this novel.
Thank you, firstly and especially, to Menaka Nishanthe Ramanayaka for all the work you did over the years, for all your strength, for becoming a friend, for making me lovely Sri Lankan tea, for sharing your feelings and memories with me, for listening to me and for being such a beautiful and caring person. It is because of you that I wanted to write this novel in the first place.
Thank you so much to Marissa Begonia for being such an inspiration with your insight and determination and for inviting me to visit the Voice of Domestic Workers in Holborn. You are extraordinary and the work you have done, what you have achieved, is honestly phenomenal. I’d like to thank all the women at the centre who welcomed me with so much love, for sharing your delicious food with me and allowing me to hear your stories. I’d also like to thank Loucas Koutroukides in Limassol, Cyprus, for all the wonderful humanitarian work you have done to help domestic workers on the island, for speaking with me for so many hours and for introducing me to so many wonderful people. Thank you too for all the interesting, informative and courageous articles you wrote and shared with me, for being brave enough to seek the truth and speak the truth when so many others turned a blind eye or remined silent. Thank you also to all the women at the Blue Elephant, who spoke to me, who trusted me with their stories, who shared their emotions and fears with me – thank you, I learnt so much.