Mrs Goody Two Shoes XXXIII

Terms and conditions

I haven't been to a more taxing interview. Ever.

For the first few days after my maid left me, and left me with an inferiority complex, I went into mourning. So down was I that I started overeating – pizzas, ice creams, chips, chocolates, biryani, and pasta were only some of the things I was gorging on. I blame it all on the blues and not on my lethargy for stepping into the kitchen; ask any psychiatrist and he’ll tell you how thousands of people globally go on a food binge as a reaction to depression.
I wasn’t unhappy with the food, and I don’t think the husband was either. Actually, it often got quite romantic as we were going out for dinner almost every other night (never mind the bickering about where to go and what to eat that preceded the outing). Or we were ordering in food and watching movies together. Needless to say, we were watching it only after a quarrel on which one to see.
To quote the oft-repeated and hence tiring phrase penned by Charles Dickens, it was indeed the best of times and the worst of times for us. We were gradually learning to deal with the emptiness that the maid had left behind, resigned to our fate. I even cooked a few dishes on a weekend.
And they started coming, in hordes. The doorbell rang incessantly. Jobseekers. When the first one arrived, we were elated. We greeted her like a long-lost friend. We were having our morning tea, so I decided to offer her a cup too before getting into the terms and conditions and then sealing the contract. I had foolishly thought that we would strike gold at the first shot.
As I handed her the tea, she turned to me and tabled her first demand, “I eat cream biscuit with tea. Four.” Thankfully I had a few remaining orange cream biscuits in my larder. I fished them out, but I had only three. “I will keep them in stock from tomorrow,” I said, thinking she would definitely join from the next day.
“I will join from next week. I need a week’s rest.” My husband and I exchanged glances; we could sense trouble. I was about to tell her our requirements, when she began rattling off her terms.
“I cook only two dishes a day. Every 15 days I take leave for three days. I will come at six in the evening, if you are not here, I can’t wait. I take bonus once a year. I…” We had to beg her to stop and after that, there was no point in us telling her what we wanted. It was clear we did not want her. Bonus?
It was virtually the same with the dozen others who came. They interrogated us as if we were criminals; they questioned us as if we were appearing for a job interview. Their queries were varied.
“What do you do for a living?”
“Do you plan to have kids soon?”
“How many days a year do you go for holidays?”
“Do you know that from now on maids will take one-month leave every year?”
I guess, we will do fine on our own, for sometime at least.