Mrs Goody Two Shoes XV

Just taking orders

Corporate slavery extends beyond the boardroom. The puny employee is the property of the boss' entire family


I was sweating under the scorching sun. It was late October and the Kolkata weather was under the impression that it was still time for summer. Easy-going as the city is, even seasons change at their own sweet time, lingering on, sauntering along. This meant that even in late October, I was stopping every five minutes under every tiny shade that I found. I was already struggling with half-a-dozen packets, and I warily glanced at the list - still at least a dozen more things to go.
I could have easily relaxed in the air-conditioned indoors, sipping on a Mickey Mouse (yes, I admit, I still love the cola float) and watched a 70’s Bollywood melodrama. The seminar I had gone to attend and the other bits of work that I had to do had concluded that morning and I wasn't due back in Bangalore till the next day. A whole afternoon and evening were there at my disposal, to be wasted away as I wished. Wasted it certainly was, but definitely not in my dream-come-true sort of a way.
Just before I was to board my flight from Bangalore to the City of Joy, I had received a phone call. A dreaded phone call. Ritu, my Bengali boss' wife, was on the line. She had bugged me enough for the last two days and I gave my phone the worst scowl I could manage. That was as sweet as revenge was going to get for me since, I definitely could not make nasty faces at her in person. "Hi Ritu," I chimed like a tinkling bell. "Yes. Listen. I forgot to mention kashundi (a special kind of mustard sauce made in Bengal). And Riddhi (my boss' pampered, molly-coddled terror of a daughter) wants Kolhapuri chappals. Make sure they are fashionable though."
She was just adding to the list of things she had already asked me-the-fawning-slave to get. Being ordered about like that hurt, but the "make sure they are fashionable" bit hurt even more. What did she think? Just because I am an inconsequential junior for her husband, doesn't mean I don't have good taste. Well, I at least know better than to wear a sari with a pair of sporty ballerinas. Hmpf!
But the reality was, it was a late October, and I was running from one end of the city to the other, under the merciless sun, ticking off items on that list, for my boss' wife. Mishti doi (sweetened curd) HAD to be from Mithai, but kachoris should come from Ganguram's. It seemed only Nokur could make sandesh -- that too had to be filled with jaggery, which by itself was an insane demand at that time of the year. Dhakai sari from RMCA Basak and men's kurtas (for the witch's beloved husband) from Amar Kutir. She ensured that the shops on opposite poles! I felt like I was on some freaky reality TV show on a goofy treasure hunt.
When I returned to the city, every item on the list ticked, guess what Ritu said? Not a "Thank you darling" but, "Oh no! Why did you get this brand? I knew at least ONE thing had to go wrong!"