DREAM OF THE HOUSEMAID by Shirani Rajapakse

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​Shirani Rajapakse

Shirani Rajapakse

  Dream of the Housemaid

   Returning home on a stretcher, a
   plane ride to the desert many

months ago gone so wrong. You got much
more than you bargained for with a salary paid

in nails. Hard as hell. Forced inside, damming your
veins, piercing bones, rotting, festering. Tears

all dried up you came back
in pain. Dreams shattered, leaving them

scattered in the sands for scavengers to feast.
The oil merchant’s wife made sure of it. There was

something she didn’t like, or maybe he didn’t like
being rejected. Wasn’t used to it. They

held you down on a chair in the kitchen
writhing and howling in pain, nails

hammered in, one at a time. Your hands,
your feet as you cried out in vain.

Stuffed some down your throat until you were too full
of it all. The X-rays back home confirmed,

but oh the shame. No one believed. No one.
Your story was good, made the news

that night and the next day too. Everyone had
something to say. But no one believed. The press

was amused; you made it all up, someone
sniggered. Couldn’t handle the pressure, the agency

that sent you grumbled and ignored your plea.
Said you did it for a piece of fame; time in the spotlight.

But what a show. You got nothing, nothing. Alone on
a hospital bed swathed in bandages stuffed with

medication they stare and talk in whispers as you
recollect the journey to the Middle East, oasis

of the poor. You went to make money,
like everyone else in the village, build a house,

educate your three children waiting at home
with their grandmother. Your husband

a drunkard, he couldn’t keep a job, so you
took over. They had to live. But all you got were

nails beaten in like Jesus that day. Yet where’s
your cross? Where are your followers?

Money gone, dignity in shreds you yearn to return
as unfulfilled dreams refuse to leave tugging

at your heart calling, calling
come finish what you started.
 ​
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