My maid has been working at my house for the past two months, and every morning she leaves at 4 a.m. When I ask her where she is going so early, she says she’s going out to exercise, but she always carries a black plastic bag with her…
My housekeeper had been working for me for two months when she started leaving the house every morning at 4 a.m. When I asked her where she was going so early, she said she was going to exercise, but she always carried a black plastic bag.
Being someone who pays close attention to household matters and is very cautious, I am always on high alert. My family wasn’t wealthy, but after opening an online store, our finances improved, so I hired a housekeeper named Priya to help with cooking and cleaning. Priya seemed to be around forty years old, short in stature, with a dusky complexion, and her eyes were always cast downward, as if she lacked confidence. She was neat, quiet, and very kind-hearted.
About two months later, I noticed something strange: every morning at 4 a.m., Priya would take a black plastic bag with her. When I asked, she said she was going out to exercise, but the bag seemed very odd to me.
My suspicion grew. These days, it’s not uncommon for domestic workers to steal items or money. My family wasn’t rich, but we had plenty of tech gadgets, leftover stock from my online store, and a fairly expensive makeup collection. Could Priya have some other intentions? I started paying closer attention.
One morning, I intentionally woke up early and checked the security camera footage. Priya was taking leftover food from the trash: some leftover stew, pieces of fish, leftover rice, and fried vegetables. She packed everything into an old plastic container, placed it in a black bag, and quietly left the house.
I was stunned. Why would she do this? Was she lying to me? What would she do with the leftover food? Sell it or feed it to animals? But there weren’t any stray dogs or cats nearby.
The more I thought about it, the more suspicious I became. I decided to follow her. For an entire week, Priya did the same thing every morning: collected leftover food, put it in a bag, and left the neighborhood.
One foggy morning, I put on my coat and hat and quietly followed her. Priya walked quickly through the narrow lanes of Mumbai’s slums, then stopped in front of a dilapidated house with crumbling walls and a rusted tin roof. A faint yellow light flickered inside.
Priya knocked gently. A thin, elderly woman with white hair opened the door. Priya bowed slightly and said, “Mom, I brought breakfast.”
My heart stopped.
She went inside and took the food containers out of her bag. Inside were not only leftovers from my house but also some stale bread, a little porridge I had made the night before for my child, and a slightly bruised apple I had been about to throw away.
The elderly woman said tremblingly, “You didn’t need to bring so much. If your employer finds out, they’ll fire you.” Priya replied softly, “I’m just taking what’s thrown away, Mom. It’s nothing.” I stood behind the door, unable to speak. A woman I had doubted, quietly feeding her elderly parents with leftover food from my house. In the dark room, a frail old man sat against the wall, breathing weakly. Priya served the food, warming it on a rickety stove, and fed her parents spoonful by spoonful. My throat tightened, and I felt bitter sadness. Priya had no idea anyone was watching. She adjusted her parents’ blankets, spoke a few words, and left quickly, worried about being late and my family needing breakfast. Before leaving, she put 50 rupees in her mother’s hand—probably most of my salary. I didn’t have the courage to go inside. I went back to the house, sat at the kitchen table, tears streaming down my face. Every day, she quietly took what I considered trash and turned it into meals for her parents. That black suspicious bag held no dark secret, only a small but heart-wrenching truth: love.
When Priya returned, I pretended to be making tea. She was slightly startled to see me up so early.
“Sister… you’re up so early?”
I looked at her, my heart aching.
“If you want to bring food home for your parents… just tell me. I’m not that fussy.”
Priya froze. Her face turned pale, her eyes widened, and then tears streamed down.
“Sister… you knew all along?”
I nodded.
Priya sank almost to her knees, which surprised me. “Please don’t fire me. I haven’t taken anything from your house. I just… my parents are starving. My father has been very sick for two months, and the medicine is expensive; we don’t have the money.”
I hugged her. “Get up. I’m not firing you. From now on, you don’t need to take leftovers. I’ll make extra food for your parents.”
She cried like a child. So did I.
That morning, I made a bigger pot of porridge and packed it carefully. I told Priya to take it to her parents while it was still warm. She kept thanking me profusely.
That afternoon, I told my husband about it. He paused and then said, “Let’s increase her salary. It’s rare to find such a good person.”
I nodded. I wanted to help her even more.
That evening, I gave Priya an envelope.
“This is your new salary. Double it for now.”
Priya shook her head quickly. “Sister, I can’t accept this. I don’t do that much work.”
“It’s not for the work,” I said softly, “but because you are a good person.”
Priya cried again.
I looked at this woman—small, hardworking, getting up every day at 4 a.m., taking leftover food in a black bag to her home. How could I have ever doubted her?
From that day on, I cooked full meals every morning. Priya no longer worked in secrecy. She thanked me sincerely for every task. My home became warm, and the kitchen filled with laughter.
I realized… sometimes, the kindest person in your own house is also the quietest. The one you suspect the most can be the most loving. And what makes you wary… is sometimes proof of a heart silently full of love.
Whenever I look back at that moment through the door of that dilapidated house, I feel I learned a lesson I’ll never forget: kindness may be rare, but it is more precious than anything in this world.