“Not difficult at all,” Mrs. Nayar said. “Do you think they are…?”

“Oh no,” said Mrs. Veerappan. “It’s much worse.” She went on to relate what her sweeper girl had heard from the Balan cook. One evening, when his wife was away at a bridge party, Mr. Balan, who noticed much more than his wife gave him credit for, asked Ravi to join him for a glass of whiskey-soda. He then inquired whether the young man would like to set Nirmala up in a little flat where he could visit her without disrupting the peace of the household. Scandalized, Ravi said he had no intention of taking advantage of Nirmala. He praised her intelligence, her belief in the goodness of the world, and her willingness to improve herself. He ended by stating that he thought rigid class boundaries were the bane of Indian society and should be broken down.

“You think he means to…?” Mrs. Nayar asked, aghast.

Mrs. Veerappan spread her newly manicured hands to indicate the thoughtless perfidy of children. “Naïve, idealistic, stubborn, and rich-when a young man’s like that, anything can happen.”

THOUGH NEWS OF THE FATHER-SON TÊTE-À-TÊTE MUST HAVE reached her, Mrs. Balan did not seem overly concerned. A few weeks later, she swept into Lola’s with Nirmala in tow, as high-nosed as ever. I scrutinized her from behind a beaded doorway as she in formed everyone that she was going to Chennai to attend the fiftieth birthday celebration of her cousin-brother, Mr. Gopalan, who owned a five-star hotel franchise. The festivities would go on for an entire week. Gopalan, a bachelor and a playboy of sorts, loved parties and spared no expense. Mrs. Balan was leaving this evening, though Mr. Balan and Ravi couldn’t join her until the weekend. She had to have a facial and a manicure at the very least, and perhaps a deep-steam cleanse as well. She insisted that Lola take care of her personally for this important occasion.

“Are you taking your maid with you?” Mrs. Veerappan asked sweetly.

Mrs. Balan replied, equally sweetly, that she was. She couldn’t do without Nirmala for even one day. Who would iron her clothes, keep track of her jewelry, carry her packages from the best shops in Chennai, remove her makeup, and give her a bedtime foot massage? “No doubt you’re accustomed to doing all these things for yourself, dear Mrs. Veerappan,” she ended, “but I’m afraid Mr. Balan has quite spoiled me.” Then she stated that she wanted Nirmala to get a facial, too.

A collective gasp went through the room at such blasphemy.

“Give her the Ayurvedic Herbal Pack,” Mrs. Balan said, causing Mrs. Veerappan, whose face was currently slathered with that exact mixture, to come perilously close to a seizure.

I was the one to whom Lola assigned the task of removing Nirmala to a private room where she would not offend the sensibilities of our regulars. Some of Lola’s girls would have balked at working on a servant, but I didn’t mind. Since the day she called me Elder Sister, I’d felt strangely protective toward Nirmala. I worked to make her as beautiful as possible, silently wishing her luck. If things worked out, she would need it, with a mother-in-law like Mrs. Balan. If things didn’t, she would need it even more.

Once she got over the wonder of being seated in a chair just like the rich madams, Nirmala chattered excitedly about going to Chennai. She had never been anywhere, apart from her village and Coimbatore. She was looking forward to the air-conditioned malls with moving staircases. And Gopalan-saar’s house, which was supposed to be twice as big as the Balans’.

As I shaped her eyebrows and massaged her firm, unblemished skin, so different from the faces I usually worked with, she confided something else to me. Mrs. Balan had given her several old silk saris to wear during the trip. Surprise must have made me frown. She hastened to add that they were very fine, and wasn’t she lucky to have such a generous mistress?

“She even gave me a fake ruby set she bought last year, for me to wear the first night when Gopalan-saar will throw a party at the house, for close friends. Madam wants me with her in case she needs something.”

I was thankful that the relationship between Nirmala and her mistress seemed as good as before. Mrs. Balan wasn’t the kind to let go of a grudge easily. Perhaps, having met her match in her stubborn son, she had decided it was best to be on friendly terms with her might-be daughter-in-law.

Nirmala examined her burnished skin in the mirror. She asked whether her face would still look as good by the weekend-which, I recalled, was when Ravi was to join them. I told her the truth, which was no. The first couple of days, with the skin still toned and shining from the massage, were the best. She bit her lower lip, deep in thought. I guessed she was trying to figure out how to meet Ravi before she left for Chennai. Then she smiled. That’s how I would remember her: glowing in the mirror, the light from the ceiling casting an asymmetrical halo around her head.

NONE OF US SAW NIRMALA AGAIN, THOUGH BITS OF HER STORY blew back to us on the winds of rumor. Piecing them together, I felt stupid. Worse, I felt responsible. She had trusted me, called me Elder Sister. I should have seen what was coming and warned her. Though I had never been religious, I went to Goddess Parvati’s temple and prayed for forgiveness. But I knew it wasn’t enough.

This is what I guessed: That first night, by dressing Nirmala far above her station and keeping her constantly at her side, Mrs. Balan made sure that Gopalan noticed the maid. Nirmala herself must have piqued his interest with her amazement at the extravagance of his house. Admiration is a powerful aphrodisiac. After the guests left, it would have been easy enough for Mrs. Balan to complain of a headache and send Nirmala to Gopalan’s room for some medicine. Who knows what transpired between the two of them there? Only these facts are certain: Long before Ravi and his father joined the festivities, Nirmala was moved from the servants’ quarters to a suite of her own in another wing of the house. Her fake jewels were replaced with real ones, her hand-me-down clothes with designer saris studded with sequins and deep-cut blouses that showed off her charms. And from the manner in which he patted her behind when she fetched him his gin and tonic, it was clear to his guests that Gopalan had found himself a new girl.

MRS. BALAN CAME IN TO LOVELY LADIES A COUPLE OF WEEKS later. She informed Lola that she wanted the softest, most natural-looking curls. Ravi was getting engaged to the youngest daughter of Kumaraswami, a real-estate tycoon from Bangalore. They had met on the last day of Gopalan’s birthday celebrations. The marriage would take place in the girl’s hometown, but the engagement party would be held this weekend at the Balan residence-a small affair, really, no more than three hundred guests.

“Do you like the girl?” Mrs. Nayar asked.

“Of course! After all, she comes from an excellent family. A bit short, and a trifle plump, but smart as a whip. Already she’s talked Ravi into handing over Vani Vidyalayam to a manager and going to work for her papa. I’m a little disappointed that he’ll be moving to Bangalore -but I’m not one to hold a son back from his happiness. Now, Lola, can you make sure I’m the chicest, youngest-looking mother-in-law ever?”

Lola assured Mrs. Balan that she could. I watched amazed, because when Lola first heard the news about Nirmala, she had kicked a table and used several colorful expletives to refer to Mrs. Balan and her ancestors. Yet now, with the utmost politeness, Lola pointed Mrs. Balan to the best salon chair. I realized that the secret of Lola’s success was a perfect separation between business and personal emotion.

“No, not here,” Mrs. Balan said. “I don’t want everyone seeing what you do and then asking for the same look. You must keep this a secret. I don’t mind paying extra. And I want only Malathi to assist you.”