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Usha Kakarla |
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Early last year, my husband's company asked if he would like to take up an assignment overseas for a couple of years. Of course the answer was a resounding yes, but my husband played it cool. He told his boss something to the effect, "Hmm, sounds interesting, but I'll have to think about it." That night we had a frenzied discussion. After consulting his parents and mine, we settled the issue that really didn't need any settling at all. By then I was dreaming of the greenbacks that would help build our dream apartment, the hip Queen's English accent I imagined my young daughter would come back with, and, most of all, the easy, comfortable lifestyle of the Western middle class as gleaned from short visits abroad and long hours watching Star World sitcoms. We began the painful process of moving. Everything got done finally and after a teary farewell to the family, we set off to 'greener pastures'. Green it surely was. Summer in England, at least when we arrived, was not your typically wet, grey, gloomy time. It was bright and sunny with very little rain, and lush and picturesque. We settled into a house in a pleasant corner of the English suburbia. It was big, four-bedroomed, with pretty front and back gardens, all spruced up and looking swank. Lovely, oh yes, we were definitely going to enjoy our stay! Within a week, we were all unpacked, and began the drill of settling in. It took precisely two weeks for my dream of leading a comfy, laidback life to come undone. And that's because I started missing Selvi. Selvi was my trusted maid and helping hand back home. And before anyone concludes what a kind-hearted soul I am, let me hasten to admit that I miss her purely for selfish reasons. I miss her when I finish my cooking and there is no one to clean up after me, when I have to wash all the heavy pressure cookers and large frying pans that do not fit into the dishwasher. The grease and dirt that accumulate on the utensils takes a great deal of scrubbing to remove, and in two weeks, all of mine had telltale signs of discoloration. I now remember -- with a sense of shame, let me add -- how I vigorously agreed with my mom-in-law whenever she pulled up Selvi for not putting the shine back into the dishes. I miss her when I have to take out the garbage -- heaps of rotting peel, soiled tissues, soaked diapers, smelly leftovers -- and clean the bin. Back home, my association with it ended with filling it up. Selvi did, what I now realise, is a breath-stopping, teeth-gritting job. I miss her when I have to vacuum the house. Initially I had thought I could do this job once a month. I mean, this is not India, there's hardly any dust or grime, so where is the need?! But a chance reading of an advert for vacuum cleaners quickly put an end to this lazy line of thinking. It said invisible dust bugs tucked away in the folds of carpeting could cause meningitis. I looked down at the soft and downy spread below my feet and wondered if it could really kill. Well, who am I to question established home truths? So I now lug a heavy vacuum cleaner up and down the house once a week to shoo away those killer bugs. Believe me, a broom is a much easier and lighter appliance to handle -- especially when it is Selvi who does the handling. I miss her when I have to do the ironing. Selvi never did the ironing herself, but she ensured that whatever needed ironing would be taken to the istriwala and brought back all pressed and accounted for. Discounting hostel days, I have never ironed my clothes myself -- and I definitely have never ever ironed 100 per cent cotton men's clothing. My husband, of course, knows better than to gripe about this crease here and that fold there. Long gone are the days when he used to instruct Selvi to convey to the istriwala that he was not happy with the state of his shirts. I miss her when my eyes tear up while slicing onions, I miss her when my daughter pesters me to play hopscotch with her, I miss her when I have to quickly run to the corner store to pick up some urgently needed milk, I miss her... Well, the list could go on and on. Of course, as my husband is quick to point out, it is not Selvi who I really miss but a 'maid'. Yes, the maid who works for a salary that is definitely not commensurate with the effort she puts in, who is not entitled to even a single day off, who would be refused, in no uncertain terms, every time she asked for a Rs 50 raise, who would be constantly told off for trivialities like leaving water spots on the bathroom mirrors or not pushing her broom deep enough under the sofa to collect that tiny speck of dust at the left-most corner. The more I yearn for a 'servant' here, the more I realise Selvi's contribution towards making my life comfortable. A comfort that no machine can ever give.
Thus chastened, I have resolved that when I go back home, I will improve the working conditions of any Selvi who is willing to be with me. I hope I still feel the same when I make that crucial transition from NRI housewife back to the tight-fisted Indian housewife I was. So help me god!
Illustration: Lynette Menezes |
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