There were iron shelves with jars of brass and tin. But to the longing hazel orbs of the feminine silhouette, they gleamed like gold and silver, displayed in the most alluring arrangement, beckoning her to ransack them against her better judgement. The jars contained pickles in them, the tantalising aroma of which was enough to weaken her to the knees, making her slurp and salivate. A preparation of dried raw mango with mustard oil, few contained, and the others had a tangy mixture of ripened tamarind and jaggery. There were jars with chilly tarts too, but the gleaming eyes were fixated on one in particular- a jar of raw tamarind soaked in sweetened vinegar- the tangiest of them all!
Her unblemished white hands moved towards the jar, almost involuntarily, her eyes ever so vigilant about being caught, as they roamed around the kitchen room once again. There were barrels and large tumblers lined up at one corner, and then the lavish arrangements of freshly cut vegetables in cane baskets. There were sweets too- a variety of them, dudher halua and kheerer laddo, along with mihidana and sitabhog, but the sight of them made her gag. The Rajbahadur Zamindar was to be married, once again for the fifth time, and the entire kitchen reeked of illustrious preparedness.
'That filth', she thought, but only for a moment as she eyes quickly brushed at the half opened door, before turning back towards her prized possession once again.
She licked her lips and gulped, a smirk of mischief plastered on her rosy thin lips, hidden under the veil of the cheap cotton saree pulled over her head.
With utmost stealth, her hands uncorked the jar, with feeble expertise, and then two fingers dipped in the gooey tart came out and aimed straight to the expectant tongue, sucking and licking them with a heartfelt joy, lost, oblivion to the wanderings of the world.

"Eye... Eyee... Who is it? Thief!"
A croaky shrill voice called out, and the tin jar fell from the woman's cradle at once, toppling on the red cemented floor, splattering it's precious contents all around.

"Chi chii chi... What a bloody mess! This lowly maids..."
The owner of the croaky voice had jumped a few steps backward, saving his freshly ironed dhoti from the reminiscence of the mess, as his eyes oozed fire of disgust towards the woman who seemed to be shivering infront of him.
He eyed her with indignance, repulsed at the distasteful cheap saree that she wore, and how she desparately pulled at it to cover not only her face but as if her entire existence from him.

Nymph as if! Bloody Apsara or what!
He huffed in a disregarded amusement. He wasn't dying to see her ugly face either.
But a thief is a thief! And in his devil like monstrous master's household it was his duty to not only find female thieves but to punish them fairly, at night!

"Eyee... Uncover your head... I said do it... Right away...!"
The man hissed the words cruelly, inching carefully towards the maiden, as she too started to retreat backward with every step.
The man extended his arm infront, inching towards her, and the woman fell back with the wall behind, shivering like an autumn leaf, he thought, but only if he could see those veiled fearless eyes that was now fixated at the kitchen knife hanging carelessly on the wall, only at a foot distance from her hand.

"Shaali... Neech kul... Open your ghumta... Otherwise... Otherwise..." He continued to hiss, and the woman's breath started to become steadier, her eyes reflecting the icy cold demeanor of death.

The man moved his hands up and then with a violent urgency tugged at the saree with which the woman had kept her face covered. Only for a moment, and the woman in quietude reached out for the knife, grabbing in steady in her grip, ready to plunge any minute now.

"Err...  Khajanchi Thakur... Arey... Omaa... Okii... Ki korchen apni!!"
Another loud voice called out, a female voice, and the ill-intentioned startled man left the woman's saree and turned around.

"Kee?? Who again?" He asked with a half startled, half authoritative tone, and the owner of the female voice inched forward towards them.

"It's me Khajanchi Thakur, your Maha... Did you just forget me already? So soon?"
The female pouted her lips in pseudo disappointment and stretched her arms towards the man, and with a huff followed by a grin, the man held her extended hands and pulled her closer.

"This bitch was stealing!" Khajanchi Mitra Babu was huffing too. "Even dared to spill that awful pickle on my new dhoti!" He rounded his eyes to emphasize on the level of crime, and Maha pouted her lips again.

"Ohoho... I'll wash it for you babu, and I'll do everything... " She didn't complete the sentence, emphasizing on 'everything', but her eyes spoke the rest clearly, making the man clear his throat.

"Umm... Acha... Alright... Come tonight then... Um... Not tonight, tonight is Jomidar Babu's wedding... Well... Let's see... Tomorrow then... After Bhromor Bai's mujro."

Maha smiled and nodded.
"As my Malik wishes."
She turned towards the woman still standing rooted by the wall, and spoke in a careless tone.
"Orey Gouri... Come, let's go."

The woman moved, and Khajanchi Mitra turned towards her with furrowed eyebrows.

"Gouri?? New girl? I don't recall seeing her before!"

"New indeed Thakur... My cousin sister... Very humble... But the poor girls husband is suffering from an unknown, incurable disease... She needed money, and I thought these wedding house can use an extra pair of hands."
She inched closer and threw her arms around the man's neck, and Mitra Babu's face flushed visibly at this sudden display of forbidden affection.
"Tell me Thakur... Did your Maha do wrong?" She spoke coyly, and Mitra Babu gulped and gasped in response.

"I mean... She... She shouldn't be stealing", was all he could murmur and Maha fluttered her eyelids and spoke in a pseudo seductive tone, which the woman behind thought to be extremely funny.
"I'll discipline her Khajanchi Thakur, I'll see that she keeps it to herself... Please... Please don't dismiss her until this month... Please!" She inched her mouth closer and Mitra Babu blushed more.
The loveless middle-aged bachelor had always seen his master pouncing on women... But his luck had always been fowl in this aspect, until Maha came in his life two weeks ago like a breath of fresh air. The girl wasn't pretty, he had thought, but atleast loves him despite his gastritis stricken sickly demeanor.

"Do you not love me Khajanchi Thakur?" Maha asked again, sensing a delay, and this time meek Khajanchi Gopal Mitra, for once, forgetting the consequences of his master's knowledge, touched the woman's chin and blew a kiss at her.

"How can I not love you my darling? My Maha..." His eyes reflected lust, a fearful one, and looking at it, Maha just faked another of her bashful smiles.
"Just been a few weeks, and I'm already neck deep in love with you!" He remarked.

"Me too!" She batted her eyelids at the man, and guided him out of the kitchen door, and then securing his departure she rushed inside the kitchen once again and fastened the door.

"What were you thinking Raimoti Madam? Do you have any idea what would have happened if this man saw you!"

Mahamaya breathed fire, and Raimoti breathed relief. She pulled the veil up, revealing her angelic face, and then she kept the knife in its place.

"You took the knife too? What was in your mind Madam? I need to know... Because anything rushed as this would jeopardize our mission! And I can't let that happen."
Mahamaya's voice had a deathly calmness, and it made Raimoti lower her gaze.

"I didn't mean to jeopardize... I mean... I'm sorry."
She murmured instead.

"Satyagouri, isn't that what you mentioned to be your name at the gate this morning?" Mahamaya asked again.
"Well, cut the Satya... Keep it just Gouri... Fancy names attracts more attention."

"Sure." Raimoti nodded.

"And what's this mess everywhere? Were you stealing aachar? Seriously!"
Mahamaya frowned in disbelief and Raimoti bit her lips in embarrassment.

"I... Um... I mean..." She fumbled, very unlike her usual self, and this confused appearance made Mahamaya let out a deep sigh.

"I thought my brother would do better than just a pretty face." She turned to leave.
"Do us a favor madam, stay inside the hut, let us know if you need anything... And for goodness sake, don't come out."
She ordered.

Mahamaya left, and Raimoti stood outside the kitchen, feeling stupid, as instinctively she banged her forehead gently on a pillar on the open verandah.

"Damn... Disgusting... What a fool I am!" She kept murmuring.

"Fool! Is it?" Another unfamiliar voice startled Raimoti. It was clearly not her day. The voice belonged to a man, and in a disconcerting alarm she turned around with a soft gasp, the veil sliding down from her forehead, letting her lotus-like eyes to bloom in the broad afternoon light.
Her hazel orbs narrowed at the pair of scrutinizing gaze, and it's owner,
a young man, darkish, with sharp features and a pair of intelligent eyes, the left hand holding a folded book on Mughal history.
Raimoti withdraw her eyes and pulled the saree up on her head once again.

"Too pretty to be a fool, aren't you?" The man spoke again, and out of her natural characteristics, a gush of words slipped from Raimoti's lips.

"Too sophisticated to be a bootlicker, aren't you too?"
The words were probably true, yet careless, and it tightened Probir's jaws at once.

"How dare!" He growled, and with an air of nonchalance Raimoti turned around to leave.
"Who are you?" His voice had suddenly mellowed down, as quickly as it had gained it's temperature.
"Definitely not a maid... Haven't seen you around either."

Raimoti chose not to answer. But Probir had already gained pace, overtaking her in a minute.
"You answer me now, or I'm going to forcefully drag you to the Jomidar." He threatened, "I'm sure it's not unknown to you how he deals with beautiful maidens."

"I'm somebody's wife, for goodness sake!" Raimoti growled too, but Probir had seized her wrist mercilessly in his grip.

"It won't matter to the Jomidar, I'm sure." He chuckled.
"Tell me your name, and your business here, and I shall set you free."

No great deeds can be achieved with an angry mind!
Raimoti closed her eyes, trying to exhale her temper.
"Gouri... That's my name. I'm here for work with my sister... My husband is ailing. We are from Purulia."
The information was like a parroted prose, and it made Probir frown once again.

"Gouri? From Purulia?" He raised his eyebrows.
"You aren't from Purulia, your accent is  very urban."

"I used to work in Kolkata."
Came her prompt reply.

"Where?"

"Rajbahadur palace."
The words came out like an instinct, even before the thoughts could weave a tale, and the moment it was uttered, Raimoti realised the utter blunder, a recovery from which seems to be far-fetched futility.
She could have mentioned any other household, some random Rambabu or Shyambabu sprouting in the nooks and alleys of Kolkata, but no! She had to talk about the infamous house, the one and only Rajbahadur palace, the house that once was hers!

Probir had let go of her wrist, his eyes maintaining a consistent suspicious gaze on her, and Raimoti looked down and muttered, in desparate attempts of rectification.
"I... I left a few years back. I... I don't know much about them." She cleared her throat. "Also, my husband would disapprove me speaking to a stranger." She adjusted the saree to cover her entire face, and turned around to leave, her quickened steps revealing an air of haste and discomfort.

"Raimoti Mukherjee..." Probir called, and the name struck like a blazing thunderbolt on her head.
She stopped at once.
"Isn't that your malkin's name?" The question followed, an ocean full of apprehension in his voice, and Raimoti half turned to look at him, straight in the eye.

"Oh that bitch! She wouldn't speak to lowly maids such as myself." She flinched her face.
"I hope she gets her share of hell."

No more words, and with hastened steps, Raimoti almost ran out of the gigantic haweli of Raibahadur Zamindar of Chattagram, Shashi Chandra Chattopadhyay.

"I'm sure she'd get her share." Probir was still standing, a slight smirk on the left of his lips, as he slowly took out a small Polaroid of an exquisitely beautiful woman standing with a Beena by her side, just like Maa Saraswati.
Probir's eyes narrowed at it, but just for once, as a broad smile took over his entire face.
"Raimoti Mukherjee... Nice to meet you too." He chuckled.