the floor with muggulu designs. The young man promptly praised her work. 'You are dexterous at swabbing the floor — even more dexterous in drawing the muggulu. Sabash, keep it up.' He said it in English, giving her a pat on the shoulder in appreciation. Overjoyed, the housewife began living with swabbing as the chief mission in her life. She scrubbed the house spotlessly clean at all times and beautifully decorated it with multi-coloured designs. That's how her life went on, with a sumptuous and ceaseless supply of swabbing cloths and muggu baskets.

But one day while scrubbing the floor, the housewife suddenly asked herself, 'What is my name?' The query shook her up. Leaving the mopping cloth and the muggu basket there itself, she stood near the window scratching her head, lost in thoughts. 'What is my name — what is my name?' The house across the road carried a name-board, Mrs M Suhasini, M.A., Ph.D., Principal, 'X' College. Yes, she too had a name as her neighbour did — 'How could I forget like that? In my scrubbing zeal I have forgotten my name — what shall I do now?' The housewife was perturbed. Her mind became totally restless. Somehow she finished her daubing for the day.

Meanwhile, the maidservant arrived. Hoping at least she would remember, the housewife asked her, 'Look, ammayi, do you know my name?'

'What is it, amma?' said the girl. 'What do we have to do with names of mistresses?' You are only a mistress to us — the mistress of such and such a white-storeyed house, ground floor means you.' '
< br> 'Yes, true, of course, how can you know, poor thing?' thought the housewife.

The children came home from school for lunch in the afternoon. 'At least the children might remember my name' — the housewife hoped.

'Look here, children, do you know my name?' she asked.

They were taken aback.

'You are amma — your name is amma only — ever since we were born we have known only this, the letters that come are only in father's name — because everyone calls him by his name we know his name — you never told us your name — you don't even get letters addressed to your name,' the children said plainly. 'Yes, who will write letters to me?' Father and mother are there but they only make phone calls once in a month or two. Even my sisters are immersed with swabbing their houses. Even if they met me in some marriage or kumkum ceremony, they chatted away their time talking about new muggulu or new dishes to cook, but no letters!' The housewife was disappointed and grew more restless — the urge to know her own name somehow or the other grew stronger in her.