Mrs Goody Two Shoes XXXII

Better job offer, for my maid

She was the one ditching me, and I was the one standing with my head hanging in shame

It’s been a month now that my evening schedule is somewhat like this: climb four flights of stairs, have a quick wash, rush to the kitchen, put the kettle on boil, start cleaning utensils while you gulp down the tea and burn your throat, start cooking, then wash the soiled utensils yet again, sweep and mop, dust and dump…. I think I have bored you enough with this tedious description, but what to do, that’s how my life is at the moment – tedious.
My maid was on one of her disappearing sprees, or so I thought, four weeks’ back. On the fifth day of her absence, I could sense there could not be good news at the end of this. I felt giddy with joy when she did return after a week. It was short-lived of course. “Didi, I won’t come to work from tomorrow.” She announced this without a jot of regret or remorse. “Why? What happened?” For a moment I even felt pity for her, thinking she may be in some sort of trouble; perhaps one, or all, of her five children were unwell, or maybe her husband in an extra-foul mood, maybe… I had already cooked up a number of ghastly possibilities that she could be going through.
But the look she gave me was condescending. “You see that bungalow opposite?” How could I not see the ‘bungalow opposite’? It isn’t a bungalow, it’s a mansion. They have five guard dogs for heaven’s sake. “Yes,” I murmured. “I am going to work there from now on. They will give me Rs 5,000,” a two-second loaded pause, “for the same work I do here. They have seven big cars. They also have lift inside house. (This to emphasise that our apartment does not have one.) My husband will be their guard.” She had swollen twice her size with pride. She raised an eyebrow and smiled at me, as if to say, “Unke paas gari he, bungla he, tumhare paas kya he?” This is an old Bollywood film clichéd, legendary dialogue. But the thought of it hurt, quite bad.
And I stood there as if I had done her some wrong by asking her to work for a small fry like me. Her monthly salary at my home was Rs 1,000. Quite a hike she had got! After she just left, leaving the room filled with the smell of her cheap perfume and haughty air, I thought to myself, “Hrmphf… Their house is ten times bigger than ours. You’ll get arthritis sweeping and mopping every day. They have ten people at home and receive hundreds of guests. Your hands will go from coarse to coarser washing utensils. Good for you!” But what was the use. I hadn’t been able to throw those words at her face. At least that would have made me feel we were even. Instead, I had meekly let her treat me like a doormat and leave.
In fact, she had won by a huge margin over me. She had got a huge raise. (I have to tell my boss that.) She had made me feel puny when it was she who should be feeling sorry for ditching me. To top it all, she had left me with piles of housework to do. I just slumped on my almost flattened bean bag. I needed a good cry.

Mrs Goody Two Shoes XXXI

Little packet of trouble

I smile at my neighbour's two-year-old thinking she will be a stressbuster. All she does is add to my miseries

Has it ever happened to you? You come back from work late in the evening, somehow drag yourself up the four flights of stairs since the lift refuses to cooperate, and then… and then you catch a glimpse of your neighbour’s two-year-old. She is a sweet little doll, really, and she turns to you with the most adorable look in her beady eyes and giggles like a brook suddenly. Her gurgling laughter hits you like a refreshing gust of breeze and, even after the grey day you’ve had at office, you manage a tired smile. “Helloooo chweetheart,” you croon with babytalk.
And that is it. You have invited your own nemesis, with a red carpet welcome. The baby looks at you and holds her arms out. What do you do? Ignore her? Of course not! I mean, you can’t. There’s no escape, because her mother is also looking at you and saying, “Oh, she is so fond of you! You looove your auntie, no baby? You want to go with auntie?” By this time, the warning bells have started jangling in my head. I can sense rapid signals of confusion like an erratic seismograph shooting through my head. While I grope in the deep recesses of my mind to find a plausible excuse, my husband comes and calls. “Hey princess (don’t mistake it, the loving address is not meant for me, but for the baby). Come with us.” My last hope is that she will not be in the mood to leave her mum, but it looks like she is as tired of her mother as the mother is of her.
The mother almost pushes her towards us. "Go baby. Uncle and auntie are calling you so lovingly." Whatever second thoughts Guddi (that's "princess's" real name) may be having melt into oblivion, and she walks towards us in her yet-to-be-steady steps. Shoulders slouching, I follow her inside our apartment.
Her being there would be fine, only if it is just being there. But it’s not. I have to cook – as in, cut vegetables, ready the meat, prepare the spices and then cook. But she drags me out and almost starts sobbing if I ignore her, which I can’t risk. Her mother will instantly spread stories about how I tortured her child around the apartment complex. I sit by her as she bores me with her vaccination card and some old bills, which I have no idea why she is carrying in her toy pouch.
There’s a Hindi movie showing on TV. I change the channel to a news programme and she screams her lungs out. Then, she sits on the remote with the excruciatingly painful Sunny Deol movie on. At my wit’s, and patience’s, end, I have a brainwave. I knock on my neighbour’s door and ask her, politely, and as if I am overtly concerned about Guddi, “Isn’t it past her dinner time? Poor thing, she must be feeling sleepy and tired. Should I bring her over?”
Promptly comes the mother’s reply, “Little Guddi, will you like to eat with auntie? Will you feel bad if I bring you home now? Do you want to stay a little longer with uncle and auntie?” To which questions Guddi keeps nodding a ‘yes’, vigorously. I stand there, flummoxed, and stranded with a two-year-old who’s more than a handful, and who’s now tugging at my skirt, shouting, “Auntieeeeee, Guddi eating!”

Mrs Goody Two Shoes XXX

The day the driver drove me nuts

You know the times when you employ someone’s services? And then end up asking yourself why you ever did it?

I was sitting at the edge of the bed, trying not to slip and fall. I had nudged and pushed the clothes and books aside to create just enough space for me. As I sat there sorting out the pile, humming to myself, I heard a creak and a groan. I slowly looked up, and saw the mountain of clothes falling over me. Before I could run for my dear delicate life, I fell on the floor, submerged under a huge heap and gasping for breath. My arms flailing, I tried to call for help but the more I tried, the more the clothes seemed to weigh down upon me. It grew darker around me and I could hear or see nothing. Then it felt like I was being pelted with bricks. I wanted to scream, my throat was dry. Who would want to throw bricks at me in my own home? With the last remaining shreds of sanity that I had left, I realized those were the books pouring down on me. I lost my strength, and just lay there, sweating and out of breath.
After a little while I woke up from this nightmare, still sweating, only to find the mound clothes and books still intact, with me lying on the floor. Must’ve slept off, I though to myself and then moaned. Still so much work left! We were moving houses, not miles away but to a better (a.k.a. more expensive) flat in the same complex. But things had to be packed nevertheless. The movers and packers were on their way. Or so they were telling me from ten in the morning. The clock had ticked to one and there was no sign of them. I kept calling them, and explaining the directions, but somehow, these talented folks had mastered the art of losing their way. Madam, we are at CV Raman Nagar, they would say and I patiently sketched with my words the next seven kilometers for them. After 20 minutes, my phone rang again and I heard the same droning voice telling me they had managed to travel seven kilometers all right, in the opposite direction.
And yet, the gooey politeness from my voice refused to disappear. I spoke to the driver as if I was speaking to a kindergarten kid who is a slow learner and needs my love and support. “Don’t worry,” I told him. What was I saying? Why would HE have to worry? I was the one stuck! “Just stop for a while and ask somebody the way to Fraser Town. Once you reach Fraser Town, call me and I will tell you the directions.” Yes madam, he said every time I gave him some instruction. And then calmly did his own thing, which was to ignore it and get lost. Worse, half the time he could not even tell me where he was.
So finally, when they did give me a landmark, I went to pick them up. Yes, I took an auto, paid one-and-a-half in the afternoon, went to the place, hopped on to the truck with the packers and came home. Guess what I did when we reached. I made tea and toast for them and served them in my drawing room! Well, it was three in the afternoon after all. And then the driver tells me, “What madam, where you staying? Whole day going round. Give me 150 rupees at least.”

[NOTE: Don't get excited by the 'XXX' in the title]

Thus far and no farther

How far is the society willing to stretch our liberty? How accepting is it of deviance and defiance?

A certain someone wrote a certain something that irked a certain section and caused a certain amount of trouble. I have to observe caution here since every, and any, word that I write can bring the RAF down. Vagueness of the strict order is the rule of the day and expression of free thoughts may cost a life; not mine or yours maybe, but a certain someone else's. Which is tragic enough and is leading me to be circumspect about the content of this here column.
I think I can be bold enough and mention that it was a lady who wrote the article. I mean, if I am questioned who and what I am mentioning I can always deny their conclusion. The article infuriated some dogmatic people. After all, she had dared to doubt and decry a tradition that many feel has been ordained by the superpower, or at least is symbolical of what the power would want from the subjects and loyalists as a mark of respect, modesty, humility. Worse, she had rekindled some already existent stories and legends about a mighty entity.
Such audacity was, of course, not to be tolerated, especially by men, since patriarchy is not used to being defied. Some days have passed since the incident and now, it is not important who she is or what she wrote. What matters is the the reaction that any deviance evokes. Authority, in any form or in any place, is so power hungry and insecure that it responds violently if a judgment is passed against it.
I was amazed at how insensitive and intolerant we have become, so much so that we cannot let a person speak out his or her mind. They could have called for a healthy debate, weighed the pros and cons, admitted that they may have had room for some error in a custom even if it has been followed for ages. Or they could have even laughed her off, called her a mad woman. But they wreaked vengeance. They were spewing venom to kill liberty and opinions.
I plead to them to have a more open and accommodating spirit. I plead people to cross over to the other side of the fence and see the other's point of view. Like, I had a big fight with a friend on this article. He was adamant in his belief that the writer of the aforementioned article had no right in making a conclusive statement that denounced a practice. After all, he said, many women seem to be comfortable with it, so what is her problem? Also, why did she spreas stories about some revered being?
I have a few objections to this stance. One, it is difficult for him to cross over to the weaker side and understand a woman's trauma and struggle. That is not an offence; he is not at fault for being a man and not having experienced a woman's perspective. Two, the writer has as much right to make a claim as the proponents of the values she was objecting to. I agree that people may disagree with her, but that cannot take away her prerogative to own a cause she believes in and is willing to stand up for. Three, her convictions may have raised a storm but without tremors great changes would not come. Four, she was merely reiterating the tales that already exist, not making up some of her own.
If anyone differs with me, I respect his or her thoughts. I just hope that we can discuss the issue in a civilised manner rather than let our egotistical fanaticism get the better of our sense and sensibility.

[After an article by Taslima Nasreen on burqa tradition, Express offices in Karnataka districts and Mangalore were vandalised. Two civilians died because of police firing. The RAF and police guarded our Bangalore office for days. And we sat wondering if it was worth all this.]

Mrs Goody Two Shoes XXIX

A vacation of chores

You don't know people till you stay together. The same goes for friends

It was a beautiful spring morning and the sun was not too warm. My husband and I were in good spirits. We were on vacation. It was a lucky break we had got. Some holiday had fallen on Friday and we had clubbed a few extra days with the long weekend, making good use of it by visiting some friends in Mumbai. Would you believe it if I told you that till then I had not seen India's busiest and most vibrant city till then?
So, the thought of exploring an unknown place and of getting together with old friends got me really excited. We arrived at Mumbai on Friday evening. Our friends (they are a married couple, Rishabh and Rumi) had even come to fetch us from the airport. We were seeing one another after five years and there were shrieks of delight as we hugged each other and opened the floodgates of all the little trivia and tidbits that somehow we had not been able to exchange over the long, long-distance phone calls.
As we bundled into the taxi, Rumi shot, "Hey, you'll see the way to our house now, right? So next time please come from the airport by yourselves. I hate travelling in this traffic such a long way." Stunned for a while, I managed to smile weakly, more embarrassed than angry, since these were really my friends and I couldn't figure out how my husband would feel about that sudden declaration.
But that passed in the rush of life that was all around us. We reached their home, hungry for dinner. They served us piping hot food. Leftovers. A little of this, a bit of that and we had to decide among ourselves who would get what, the portions being too small to share. Well, Rishabh and Rumi are busy professionals, they wouldn't have had time to cook for us, I reasoned with myself. "Thank you for the delicious dinner," I still said, after which Rumi made me do the dishes with her as her 'bai' would not be in the next day.
The following morning was a fresh start. The four of us went out on a city tour, hogged pao bhaji, lazed on the beach and although my husband and I had to shell out all the money at all the places, it was fun. We were about to head home when Rishabh told us that they had a party to attend and could not be home that night. We, my husband and I, stood there expectantly, like little children waiting to be invited to the party too. That didn't happen. Not that we didn't have fun by ourselves, with dinner at a fancy restaurant with a sea view. But their going away made us feel betrayed.
Of course, like a good little girl, I woke up early to make tea for them when they returned just after dawn break. I even fixed breakfast for all of us. The next few days, I was cooking and cleaning and scrubbing at their place as they went about their work and other commitments. In between my chores, my husband and I would go around Mumbai.
On the last day, I said, "I'll leave a thank you note." "Thank you? After this?" my husband could not fathom my 'generosity'. "Well, they let us stay at their place after all," I tried to reason. "Hotels let you stay too! You write thank you notes to them for all their hospitality?" he shot back, exasperated. "No, but we pay them money." With this, we looked at each other and silently agreed that we would settle for the thank you card.

Clipped wings

While I was throwing my teen tantrums, fighting with my father to let me have an expensive pair of boots and ignoring my mother's warnings about my 'cool' boyfriend, another life was quietly evolving under our roof. I pitied her sometimes for working as a house help at the tender age of 12. We sometimes chatted as she swept the floor of my room and she looked wonder-eyed at my books while I chewed on my pen carelessly. She was awed by me, my clothes, my trinkets, my school uniform. I casually talked to her in my free time, smiled when she paid me a compliment and gave away my old dresses, made redundant by my boredom, to her.
No, it would not be fair to me if I say I felt superior to her. I liked her and thought she was a very sweet girl. It's just that I was too preoccupied with my upper-middle class life and quest for my liberty to say and do and live as I pleased to notice how free I actually was and how helplessly bound to her fate and her living conditions she was.
Her name was Sumita. Her family lived in extremely poor conditions. Her father was the operator of one merry-go-round that he travelled with in villages and fairs. Her mother also worked as a maidservant in some houses. Between them, they could barely feed and clothe themselves and their three children. Sometimes, I later learnt, the breakfast she had at our house would be Sumita's only meal during the day.
I now remember her liquid eyes, smiling through the adversity. She was always happy, cheerful. I used to get bogged down and debated or rebelled against a teacher's disciplinary strategies or my parents' orders or being told to behave in a certain way because I am a girl. Yes, I have hated adhering to strictures always. But I now realise, I should have been fighting her battles instead of selfishly asking for more leeway when I already had a lot of it.
When she turned 13, her mother announced to us that Sumita could not work at our house any longer. I was happy. I thought the girl would finally get a break. By that time, I was going to college and I had become even more resistant to any form of authority. Sumita, on the other hand, had become meeker, her smile still there, but with a shadow of sadness. Coming back to her mother, she came and announced that she was getting Sumita married. I was shocked, even more so when I was told that the groom was forty years old and had a wife and a kid.
This is an average story with most poor families in India. But I guess I had thought that Sumita and her folks were 'city' people and would not opt for child marriage. I was acting like the "if they don't have bread let them have cake" queen. They were too poor to take care of Sumita for a few more years and this marriage would mean food and clothes for her. Even Sumita seemed to have acceded. I tried reasoning with her and her mother. I tried rebelling with my parents, as if they had a right over Sumita. Actually, my parents also tried their bit. The result was Sumita was not allowed to come to our house from the next day.
But she did return after a month for a brief period. This marriage had collapsed because the dowry was unreasonable. Sumita's mother warned her not to speak with me too much in fear of me putting ideas into her head. I think she knew her poverty too well to get ideas any way. Some time later, there was another marriage proposal, this time from a 42-year-old bachelor. Dowry was arranged. Sumita went away, resigned to her fate.
I have not seen her since. Now I look back and regret that I never did anything for her, so full I was of myself.

Don't worry about my socks and shoes

I don't dress the way I do to prove a point. I do it because that's the only way I know

I wear socks to office. I alternate between two pairs of shoes. One is an oversized pair of canvas shoes which I had bought because I fell in love with them, and because they were priced at Rs 300, unlike the Rs 3,000 sneakers that my colleagues wear with labels bearing Nike, Adidas and Reebok. The other is a once-blue, now-grey pair of floaters. I have to admit that it is a Nike original, but then, that is because I got it as a gift from my uncle four years ago.
Perhaps sometimes, my socks, and even shoes, reek of a stale odour. When I sniff the air and detect that unmistakable smell floating around, I take care to air out the pair and change the socks. But that is who I am; that is how I am most comfortable. It may even be one of the many reasons I am in the profession I am in. My workplace does not dictate a dress code and I am glad I did not end up behind one of the corporate doors.
Sometimes I need to visit swanky places to meet people for work-related purposes and I don't feel awkward to walk in wearing a lumpy sweatshirt and one of the faithful pairs of shoes (just that I make sure there are no unpleasant smells). I don't do all this to make a statement or stand out from the rest or show the world that I don't give a fig for general notions of fashion. I do this because this is who I am. If I could love heels and nail polished toes and finger-nails, I would go for it. It's just that I don't love them.
Remember Andy Sachs from Devil Wears Prada, the Andy Sachs prior to the predictable transformation? Well, I may have the temerity to proclaim myself the Andy Sachs of the purview of my world. I cannot tell the difference between the belts and I don't care that I can't, if you know know what I mean. Some people, actually most people, get me wrong. They think I am scoffing at their preoccupation with style and beauty. They feel that I am so haughty that I think I am above and beyond fashion and deliberately under-dress to show the world that there is no reason for me to become part of the mainstream society.
I plead not guilty. In fact, sometimes, I am even in awe of the girls who manage to handle all those colours in those boxes and tubes, the trinkets that glimmer and shine, clothes that sometimes flow and sometimes cling. But still people refuse to understand. In office, I hear the girls titter behind my back about my appearance. They become vituperative and make ask themselves, 'What does she think of herself?'
One day, I thought I will wear Kolhapuri chappals to office. I thought this would at least end the hours of tension that the girls go through on my account. They looked at my 'un-pedicured' feet and laughed. They stared at my semi-dirty toenails and cringed. In the end they said, "What does she think she is doing, trying to be like us?" So, it is back to canvas and worn-out floaters, my friends.