Between the Toilet Brush and the Divine

There’s a man who works for my father-in-law. Middle-aged, soft-spoken, and known to all as “Yakayya.” He’s been around for years—not someone whose work is spotless, but someone who’s easy to work with. My mother-in-law, who is no more, used to like him for exactly that. She’d say, “He doesn’t make a fuss.”

If the hall was full of chatting ladies and he had to sweep, he wouldn’t wait awkwardly. He’d simply lift each foot gently and sweep under. No grumbling, no fuss, no discomfort. He just does. Like the task is all that matters—not the gender, not the place, not the judgment.

The other day, since my regular help couldn’t come, I asked Yakayya if he could clean the bathrooms. Later, my co-sister called me—sounding concerned. I assumed she was going to warn me about slacking off or him pocketing things. But no. What she said genuinely amused me.

She said, “Be careful, he might use your toothbrush to clean the bathroom. He doesn’t differentiate.”

That word stayed with me—doesn’t differentiate.

Later, I saw him walk across the house, toilet brush tucked under his arm like it was nothing. No grimace, no hesitation. When he scrubs, water splashes on him—his face, his clothes. Still, he talks, even jokes. No irritation. No disgust. Just presence. Just movement.

I couldn’t help but compare. Even when we clean our own homes, we wrinkle our noses. We rush. We sigh. We feel it.

Yesterday he came in late, and I asked him why. He said it’s Shravan Maas, and everyone wants their homes cleaned for puja. Then I asked casually, “And you? Don’t you do any pooja?”

He smiled, almost amused by the question. “No. I don’t.”

It hit me hours later.

Maybe he doesn’t need a special puja like us. Maybe the fact that he doesn’t differentiate—between clean and dirty, between ‘men’s work’ and ‘women’s work’, between doing a job and doing it with presence—is his worship. 

Maybe this man, in all his seeming ordinariness, is more in sync with divinity than the rest of us with our decorated pooja rooms and sandalwood-scented rituals.

Oh, I wish I could live like that.

The Guest I Never Invited

I don’t know how long she’s been here.
I only know now that she has - Quietly. Carefully. Kindly.

No scratching.
No chewing.
No mess.

Not like the others.

She came in the way some memories do — without warning, without noise, without asking.
And slowly, she made herself a corner in my home.
And in my thoughts.

I first sensed her presence when I saw just 5 or 6 kernels missing from the corn-cob I had forgotton open.

Not torn apart - Not scattered. Just taken — gently.

But even before that, she had been visiting — I realise that now.

She had eaten from Annapurna Devi’s offering
Not once.
Many times.
And yet, not a single idol was disturbed in my shrine
Not a flower moved.
It was as if she bowed, took only what she needed, and left like a devotee — not an intruder.

No mess.
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This morning, at 3 AM, I did something I never do — I opened the bathroom door.
And there she was!

Suddenly everything connected:
The hot water not working, the soggy, pulpy bits I kept finding after draining cycles — not cloth or plastic, but something like softened paper.
And now, I know.
She had made her nest between the drum and the wall of my washing machine 

And she had been there all along - Safe. Invisible.

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I panicked and began placing glue traps,
that’s when guilt hit me.

How could I harm someone who had done no harm?
Who never invaded, only borrowed a corner to survive?
Who left even God’s space undisturbed?

And yet,
I am human.
We are the most dangerous predators, I guess.
We destroy more out of fear than need.
I say I care, I say I understand…
but in the end, I only think of my washing machine —
whose heater no longer works because of her.
Or worse — I think about the pups she might have birthed inside.
And how they might multiply.
And how that might ruin the order of my home.

I’m selfish.
I know she’s gentle.
I even believe she’s a mother.
But I still fear what might happen if she stays.

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Because this isn’t just about a rat.
It’s about all the quiet things I let stay — in my home, in my heart.
Roles I no longer need.
Guilt I never questioned.
Soft things that take up space quietly, but stop something in me from working.

Not all who stay cause damage.
Not all who leave deserve anger.

Some simply remind us:
That even gentle guests need to go — for the flow to return.

Now, I just pray
she goes…
before something that should not happen… happens.