Mrs Goody Two Shoes XXXVII

Waka waka… whew it’s over!

Off-the-field action gets as exciting, and as tiring, as the real game

It’s all quiet on the home front. Suddenly the remote control lies abandoned, a little lost, and confused about what is expected of it now. The husband and the brother-in-law look equally lost, hovering around a bit aimlessly. There is a sudden lull and a few beer cans are chilling in the refrigerator, untouched. I wonder if something has gone amiss, and although I put up a “yes-I-TOTALLY-understand” kind of glum face, the moment I turn my back to them in the kitchen, I am smiling and humming a happy tune. Albeit softly. But humming nonetheless.
The curtains are down on one of the most spectacular sporting events of the world, which features some of the best-looking men of the world, and yes, the world has changed since. After a month of planning our days and nights around FIFA World Cup 2010, our lives suddenly seem goalless. Umm… you have to excuse the obvious pun. Tell me, who wouldn’t be tempted, and who can avoid talking in soccer lingo after an intensive crash course on everything from corner kicks to the Cruyff turn?
What did you think? My life was untouched by the “Beautiful” Game? My life was thrown out of gear, massacred, hijacked. I began noticing the little things in the first week itself.

Me: “Listen, we have to go for groceries today, in the evening.”
Husband (in dramatic, exclamatory tone, indicating I had said something sacrilegious): “Uh… What? I mean, how?”

Me: “We have to go meet Rina and Sumit at Khan Market for…”
Husband (in a soft but incredulous tone, indicating I was a poor looney woman): “How darling, just tell me how?”

Me (on a Saturday evening): “Hon’, can we go for a movie tonight?”
Husband: “WHAT?” (I think you know THAT tone.)

So I knew, mornings are all work, and evenings, all play. And with play came the appendages. I had to sever ties with my television. I had to almost sever ties with the husband (almost because I had to be at his beck and call.) The boys littered the sitting room with beer cans and bottles till the wee hours; I woke up to the stale beer smell and started gathering up the empty containers and the leftovers of the snacks that I had to serve them like a good little wife should. Well, these, you will say, are part and parcel. What else should I expect during the WORLD CUP?
I know! And I am not complaining! I, too, love the game! I am not an airhead who doesn’t follow sports; I follow, when I want to. But then there was more. Somebody got a free Jabulani. So of course we had to rush to that person’s house. So what if you have come back tired and sweaty from work and hadn’t had time to change and have to wake up early next morning?
Somebody supports the same team as your husband does. So of course you have to pack yourself up and journey halfway across town for two hours to watch a 90-minute match and then drag yourself back with a grouchy husband because the team lost.
Some people support a rival team, so the group piles themselves at our home because the match “gets more interesting” when people break out in fights, with a shower of expletives (I got to learn some very interesting ones, I think some of them got coined there) raining around.
These, as you say, are repeat telecast at every tournament. I was living with them, resignedly. Football fever kept rising and one early morning, 6 a.m. it was, I found the husband all awake. I got worried. Something must be terribly wrong! Or was I hallucinating? Was the clock running right? It was. "Hey, could you make some tea? For all of us?" Okay, so whatever grogginess I had was gone. "All of us?"
"Yeah, the football team," he said casually as if it's the most natural thing that happens to us every morning.
In our drawing room were lined up about twelve boys -- age ranging from ten to forty. All in sneakers and shorts displaying not so appealing legs. I thought to myself, "You guys are no Forlan or Messi or Villa or Casillas or..." Ahhhh, now THOSE are men.
Anyway, I fed them tea and toast, and a friend generously said, "Why don't you come and watch? You may even join us," he winked at someone random. WTF! He thinks I can't play or what? Ego bruised, I trooped out with them to prove a point. World female footballers are thousand times better than their Indian male counterparts.
On the field. "The ball's gone out of the line, can you please fetch it?"
"I am really thirsty. Can you go make us some lemonade?"
"Shanky's got a bad cut. Run and get the Dettol. Hurry!"
"Just stand at the sidelines and kick the ball in when it rolls that way." [Pause] "You can kick, right?"
That was all my participation in the "match".
And then, BAM! I was lying on the ground. "Oops, sorry, happens. Don't worry boys, she'll be fine." Taking a hit from a muddy, smelly football isn't my idea of enjoying the game, and much as I love the adrenalin-rushing, minimal adverts game, I think I won't miss it so much for another four years.

Mrs Goody Two Shoes XXXVI

"JUNIOR! Run! Fetch!"

If you are somewhere near the bottom of the stairs... well, heaven save you!

Hierarchy. A word that seniors love to drop in here and there. And just about everywhere. “Don’t worry, we don’t believe in hierarchy in this organization.” Or something like, “The hierarchy is just like steps. You can always climb up, and always reach the one at the top.” Or even, “We are all friends here. What’s hierarchy?” In the guise of assuring us that there is no pecking order, they make sure the word hierarchy is drilled into us. So that we never forget where we stand, and never dare to cross over.
So I never questioned my role and ‘their’ preoccupations during – photo shoots, tours, assignments, food reviews. So when my boss brought her 10-year-old son, seven-year-old nephew, and 80-year-old aunt to a dinner that was supposed to be for media only, and then started ordering specific food for her guests because “Bittu does not like chicken” and “aunt cannot digest mutton”, I dared not even think that it was improper. But one day, when I took my mum to one small lunch, she hauled me up at office. “since when have we started taking family to business lunches? Have you ever seen any of us doing it?” “Umm…” But she was rattling off in one breath, “Don’t you think you should ask me, who’s hierarchically above you, for permission at least? You cannot breach…” So that is how it is.
Then came my first photo shoot. Don’t get me shot. I wasn’t the lucky one to be wearing great clothes and brilliant make-up. I was the one who carried the juice to the model, got yelled at if the proper outfits did not arrive on time, if the weather was hot and the soup was cold. Anything that anyone else may have been responsible for did not count. They had to glare or shout at me. For my first shoot I was up at 4 am. I had to pick up my boss, then the senior photographer, and another colleague, who was, fortunately, at par with me, hierarchically.
I reached my boss’ home at 4.30 am. Someone shouted from the window, “She’s getting ready.” The clock ticked, 10 minutes, 20, half an hour, 45 minutes. My phone had started ringing. ‘Senior photographer calling’, it screamed at me. “Yes sir. We are on our way sir. Actually sir (please note, sir is like the necessary punctuation marks when you are speaking to the man with the expensive camera), I am waiting outside ma’am’s home.” I desperately wanted to add, that witch had not even called me in for a cup of tea. My emotions dug a grave for themselves and dived in when Mr Sir shouted, “Why are you waiting outside? Don’t you have a responsibility? Get in there and drag her out if you have to.” “But sir…”
Somehow, we reached our destination, 300km away from the city, more or less on schedule. From then to sundown, I was on my toes, getting breakfast, fetching the towel for the model, taking the sweaty towel back, and every kind of job possible. The junior photographer had to oblige to everyone’s whims and whines.
What were the bosses doing all the while? My ‘ma’am’ had brought her manicurist along. She had also booked herself in a bungalow, for the afternoon lunch and siesta. She needs to look beautiful, doesn’t she? And the photographer sir – well, he had cocktails ready and was “briefing” the model throughout, sitting by her all day, under the shade of the fancy umbrella.

Mrs Goody Two Shoes XXXV

Can I take your order, please?

Waitressing has been added to the "skill set" on my resume

When I had asked my team of about thirty people if I could bring coffee for anybody, I was being nice. And I had thought that this bunch of ‘adults’ would know that. Have they not learnt to read the tone of politeness for the sake of politeness? I was actually heading off to CCD in the ten-minute break I had got since I was super bored with my office canteen’s version of the hot beverage. So I asked, “Guys, anyone needs anything?”
“You’re going? Cool! Sweetie, can you please get me a latte? And a brownie? Oh, and it would be reeeeeally nice if you could get a box of cookies too. (Turning to her best friend) You know, I had promised my daughter I will bring a box for her, but never got time. (Turning to me) That’s all.” This was one of the seniors. ‘That’s all’? It sounded like a monthly grocery list to me. All I could do is bite my tongue. I had asked for it after all.
I got up from my seat all grumpy faced. Almost out of the door and I heard a scream, “Stop, stop!” I thought someone wanted to come with me. A smile of relief had just started to make an appearance, when, “Just get me a mocha…” Well, there’s no point in listing the items.
Straddled with more orders, I arrived at CCD. After rattling on the long list, I was asked to wait for “at least half an hour for your order ma’am”. So my ten-minute break extended, and not to half an hour but forty minutes. I came back, precariously balancing coffees and sandwiches and cakes. My boss gave me a nasty look, “We come here to work, not to party.” His mood worsened when he realized that there was all this food with nothing for him. His thunderous look suggested I was going to have a very unpleasant time. Quickly, I handed him the sandwich I had bought for myself.
“I got this for you, sir.”
“Is that chicken?”
I froze. He was a vegetarian. “Um, well…” my mind was racing, it had to find a good excuse, “It is soya, actually, made into a paste.” He was gullible enough, or perhaps greedy enough, to fall for it.
My day was somewhat saved. But I hadn’t seen what was coming. My boss came to think it my job role entailed buying food for him, at least whenever I went out for food, or even a cup of tea in the canteen. In the initial days, he would add a please at the end of his demanding tone. The please vanished gradually, and even specific instructions went away. By the end of a week it was, “Get me something.” And by the end of two, it was just a look.
The seniors took his cue too. They would not even wait for me to go somewhere, but blatantly order. “Girl, get some butter chicken and rotis for lunch, okay?” was the first instruction I would receive in the morning. It went on and on. They even told me what I should cook at home and bring.
So now, I am the official waitress-cum-bearer-cum-cook in the office. And no, I do not get extra pay for it.

Mrs Goody Two Shoes XXXIV

Fever pitch

I fall sick. I need care. And he gets all the attention!

All the work that I was doing (or the very thought of them) in the maid’s absence got to me, and finally, the thermometer declared it was time I took some good rest. My temperature was quite in tune with the weather outside, but in a way, I was quite glad that the mercury had risen. Fever always translates into two things – holiday and pampering. At least, with my mum and dad around, that was the story of my life. One little sneeze and they ran to me with chicken soup and ginger tea, and tucked me in with new comics. This kind of royal treatment lasted even when I was in university.
So that Friday I happily jumped into bed, pulled a light blanket over me, made a puppy face and looked at the husband with sad eyes. “I don’t think I can manage to go to work today. I’ve got fever,” I said in a whisper. “What? You aren’t going? Wow! Lucky girl!” Naturally, I was shocked by this response. It took me a few seconds only to flare up. “You think I enjoy this?” I roared. Well, I did but what right had he to know that? He was tamed in an instant. “You must be feeling so bad. Don’t worry, I’ll be back soon.”
With that, he was out. No asking me what I needed -- whether he should brew a cup of tea for me, or get me a glass of water even. So basically I had to fend for myself. I scraped a salad lunch for myself with leftover vegetables. When the husband returned, he came in with a huge box, and a huge smile. “I’ve got biryani. You don’t have to cook.” My face fell. Biryani in this condition? He saw my face, and promptly added, “I mean, for me and James. Did I not tell you he’s coming over? It’s Friday after all.”
I had no words left. I was missing mum. I stayed awake most of the night, with alternating cold and heat waves. My whining woke up the husband a number of times. Once, or maybe twice, he asked if I was all right. By the time I could tell him I would be grateful if he could fetch me an aspirin with lukewarm water, he was asleep.
Next morning, Bhasin auntie came for a visit. Hearing about my illness, she patted my husband on his head. As if he was a kindergarten kid. “Oh son, you must be feeling so sad. Have you had anything to eat? You must have stayed awake all night. How can a man manage if the woman of the house lies down? I will send you food beta.”
My husband caught my glare and quickly said bye to her. From then on, we had a stream of visitors during the whole day, asking how my husband was doing. They brought all kinds of food, absolutely unfit for a patient. I may have recovered faster, but my temper, and my temperature, hit the roof. I packed a suitcase, and went off to my parents’ house. The first question my mum posed to me was, “But with you here, how will he manage? I feel so sorry for poor boy.”
Aaaaaaaargh!!!

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.

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!”