Maid in India: Tales of Household Helps and Husbands

I had started with the Indian Maid Story in one of my earlier posts. This post, ladies and gentlemen, is Part 2 of the same Indian Maid Story.

Women often have to bear the injustices of an oppressive society. Logically therefore, one would expect, in keeping with our susceptibility to preconceived notions, that the ladies at the lower rungs of societal hierarchy, would be an even more disempowered lot.

Surprisingly (and refreshingly), I have found that that is not the case. Almost all maids that we have had over the years in the Navy, and whatever be their level of education (scarcely higher than matriculation mostly), were liberated and decision makers in their respective households.

Take Shanti, our maid in Delhi. Or even Baby, about whom I have referred to earlier here. These ladies, though largely uneducated, were well acquainted with managerial principles, and that most importantly, teamwork and delegation engender efficiency.

Accordingly, it was common sight for us to enter the kitchen to find Shanti’s husband, still in his work clothes,  washing the utensils while she donned the role of a particularly pernickety manager.  She would inspect each utensil, and hand back those that did not pass muster with some comments exhorting her husband to apply himself more diligently towards the task allotted. Such was her ‘managerial’ demeanour that I half expected her to ask her husband where he saw himself five years hence.

Again surprisingly, most husbands would carry out their assigned tasks without much ado. Not a hint of patriarchy, no misogyny. Now, if that wasn’t a perfect example of equitable marriages, I don’t know what is. Only goes to show that while these husbands could not, bound as they were by rigid social mores, express their love, arms spread Shah Rukh Khan style, they preferred conveying their feelings in their own little (and perhaps, far more effective) ways.

Some husbands of course buck the trend. Take Ashwini’s husband. I remember that I had asked Ashwini on her first or second day in our employment to call her husband for some help in moving furniture. Now Ashwini was a petit, demure lady, and as like mostly begets like, one would expect her husband to be similarly reserved.

It gave me quite a start therefore when he walked in. He was six feet two inches tall, reed thin, clad in skin tight jeans the belt of which was closer to his knees than his waist (giving me a disconcerting glimpse of his turquoise underwear). His T shirt proudly proclaimed ‘better to die standing than live on one’s knees’ (Che Guevara apparently). The hair was in a fashionable pony tail, tied at that moment in a top knot. So dandy was his appearance, and so far removed from demureness his personality, that all I could do was gape. The Wife, more open minded about appearances, had to take over the conversation.

Which brings me to our current maid, the chief protagonist – of fluid age and indeterminate identity – of this Indian Maid Story.  For she, depending upon her fancy, was sometimes Pooja, and on other occasions Balmuni. She is cheerful and efficient. And just 24 years of age. Or 29, depending again on her whimsy. And behaves like she is 15.  

She arrived from Chattisgarh by bus at about 0500 hrs and The Wife, worried about a young small-town girl finding her way home at such an odd hour, went to the bus station to pick her up. She inspected each passenger disembarking from the bus, expecting one ‘Pooja looking’ girl to step out. She found none. Nonplussed and more than a little annoyed, she called Pooja. Pooja apparently had already disembarked just a minute ago. After some minutes of confused “I am here… where are you”, The Wife was graced by an apparition dressed in a fashionable one shoulder top emblazoned , “Short Sassy Cute Classy.”

 On reaching home, she introduced herself as 24 years old with 10 years of experience. That made me look askance because the maths did not add up. When confronted, she decided that she was 29. Even otherwise, Pooja we found, loves ambiguity, which always keeps us on our toes. Examples:-

The Wife – “Pooja, have you seen my hair band?”

“I didn’t take it” (with more than a hint of umbrage)

The Wife – “Pooja, have your food”

“I’m fasting today”

The Wife – “But don’t you fast on Tuesdays”

“Yes, but also on Thursdays”

The Wife – “But you ate last Thursday”

“Yes, but that was the fourth Thursday”

The Wife – “Pooja, do you want some chicken”

“No, I don’t eat chicken”

The Wife – “But didn’t you eat chicken the day before yesterday”

“Yes, but not Tandoori chicken”

The Wife – “Pooja, whom is this for” (when Pooja proudly shows off some trinkets she had bought)

“It is a gift for my 15 year old niece”

The Wife – “How old is your sister”

“25”

Conversing with her thus is almost like trying to pin jelly to a wall. And then like a true 15 year old, she loves her phone and Insta and Youtube. I got a call from a friend one day saying that our house was all over Instagram. That surprised old fogey me, as I didn’t  even have an Instagram account. However, I clicked the indicated link – And there was Pooja! Cavorting in OUR living room pout in place, then with a proprietary hand over OUR TV, leaning casually against OUR Skoda (fingers of her right hand making a V sign), glancing coyly at the camera in OUR kitchen, striking a candid pose in OUR balcony (with fingers crooked into a ‘heart’ sign).

Boy, was she aggrieved when we asked her to never get her phone into the house!

The defining feature about Pooja however, is her confidence. I remember the occasion when Pooja was off to Chattisgarh for her annual break. The Wife asked her how she would go to the Bus Station (about 25 km from our house).

“Don’t worry, I have ordered an Uber”, she replied, surprising both of us.

The cab came. Pooja, with the haughtiness of Cleopatra, asked the driver to load her luggage. The driver, sensing perhaps that they were both at a similar level in societal hierarchy, pulled his ears back. Guess who did the loading? Me.

Meanwhile, The Wife tried to assist Pooja when she found her struggling with the Pin/OTP; only to find that the cab fare was only Rs 185/- as against Rs 700/- or so that we had expected. The Wife got worried. On enquiring with the driver, it was found that the cab was only booked for a short 2 km trip. Pooja, however, went on the offensive.

“Toh kya hua. Thoda aur aage hi toh hai Bus Station. Wahan drop kar dena. Main 50 rupaiye aur de doongi”.  (So what, the Bus Station is only a bit further. I will pay an additional Rs 50/-).

The driver baulked, leaving The Wife to advise Pooja that it doesn’t work so. Pooja took umbrage and told The Wife that she was not a small kid and she could look after herself. Even her mom doesn’t doubt her so much, she added.

Guess who paid the Rs 185/- and booked another cab for Rs 700/-?  

Overall however, despite her penchant for throwing us off with her somewhat disconcerting answers, Pooja has been a great maid. She never complains, runs our house like clockwork and is crazy enough to catch rats by their tails. We have grown to quite like her and as an added advantage, she has aided us in developing an admirable level of tolerance for ambiguity. Always a good thing that, say the management gurus. No rats in the house too – reason enough for her being the most important woman in my life.

And finally dear Reader, if reading this made you smile, please forward it to two friends who take life too seriously.

PS – Pl click below for another Indian Maid Story

Why Maid Servants are the Real Boss – Tales from my Household