I never meant to fall in love with the daughter of my employers. And they, during their trial, said they didn’t mean to kill me and leave me hanging from a tree in their garden. They only meant to teach me a lesson.
I was spying on them in court from behind the bench where the judge sat – large and wheezing – like Romeo, the ancient German Shepherd dog my employers kept in their house. Everyone had to walk that dog: the Pathan guard, Salman Gul, who complained about the filth and uncleanliness; John, the Christian driver who had no grounds to complain; and the Hindu houseboy, Krishan – though nobody cared for his feelings.
I was the cook and handled food. That is why I was never made to walk the dog when I was alive. My employers were good to me till the very end; but it was out of fear, not love. And fear was what they were displaying now that they’ve been caught for killing me.
There they go again– my former master and mistress – saying they did not mean for me to die. They are weeping, while a fat, balding barrister in a black coat and white wig interrogate them about me.
But of course they meant to kill me. Fear makes them lie. Me – I tell the truth. Who do the dead have to impress with tall tales and bakwas?
Here’s one truth: the person who controls the food controls the house.
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