Invisible Hands

Singapore's streets glitter with mirrored towers, the scent of kaya toast drifting from kopitiams while black-suited men hurry through glass offices. Behind this sheen of efficiency thrives another industry-maids. Foreign Domestic Workers, as the contracts call them. To families, they are lifelines: caregivers, housekeepers, shadows sustaining the rhythm of life.

Mr. Tan sits in a leather chair at the agency, scanning files like a catalog of lives. Photographs of young women from Indonesia, the Philippines, Myanmar stare back. The manager, Miss Lim, sells them with polished smiles.
"Obedient, timid, no children. Perfect for long-term service."

One photo belongs to Lila. Her gaze, though fixed on the camera, tilts downward, already burdened.

At the Tan household, her contract dictates her existence: six days of labor, one day off only if granted. Her "room" is a storage closet with an iron bed wedged between brooms and suitcases. Madam Tan hands her a list that unrolls like a decree: wake at five, cook, clean, iron, care for the children. Mistakes come from her pay. The children bark commands as though to furniture. At night, while the family dines on Orchard Road, Lila scours dishes until her hands sting raw.

The agency's promise is always the same: "Like one of the family." But families do not lock their daughters in, confiscate passports, or ration rice. Still, Lila obeys, for debts and hunger wait beyond the gates, and her silence becomes a currency for survival.

Meanwhile, Miss Lim readies another file, another girl, another cycle. The city gleams, a polished machine fueled by invisible hands.

In the cramped storeroom, Lila whispers to herself:
"You are not invisible."

Yet in Singapore's grand apartments, invisibility is exactly what is required.

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