Who is the most important woman in your life?

Most dutiful males would indubitably reply – my wife/mother. Not me. I can say without hesitation, and I cant stress this enough, that it is our maid. I used to hear quite often during my years in the Navy that nobody is indispensable. Ha! Obviously, the Navy never had maids.

Courtesy frequent transfers, we during our tenure in the Navy, came across many maids (18 in total). Each maid of course, came with her own priorities, quirks of personality and working style. On the whole however, I can say with certitude (and The Wife will agree) that we have always had excellent maids – efficient, caring and trustworthy. Moreover, since The Wife had a career of her own (and a far more successful one than mine), our various maids virtually ran our house. Most often, all that we needed to do was replenish our ‘money jar’ (the one into which the maid could dip in, should she need money from milk/vegetables/bread and some such) and she would look after everything else – what to cook, when to change the bedsheets/send curtains for dry cleaning, ‘order’ us to order gas, etc. Charmed life eh?

A great man has said (maybe that was me) that ‘it is so with life that circumstances instil habits.’ To substantiate – If one has lived in Mumbai for any length of time one gains a good understanding of the ‘preciousness’ of water. Mainly because, the BMC guys, convinced that an early start to the day was good for one’s soul, made this life giving liquid spurt from the taps at some god awful time like 0330 hrs in most of Mumbai, and then for, hold your breath, a full 15 minutes. Most wives would thus be awake by 0300 hrs (for this indicated time of 0330 hrs was, like all things Indian, just that – indicative and uncertain) waiting with bated breaths for that magical ‘phissss phisss’ sound that taps make before they start delivering the H2O. The next fifteen minutes would see all hands at ‘action stations’ and a mad scramble to fill up every water receptacle.

Fortunately, the water Gods were a bit more lenient to the naval colony in Colaba. Water would come at about 0600 hrs for about 30 minutes and again at about 1830 hrs for 15 minutes. Notice the beauty of these timing? Your mornings are gone, because one needed to be up by 0530 hrs, one bucket under the tap, one under one arm, and another two lined up close by, looking for all practical purposes like a determined Napolean readying himself for battle. And 1830 hrs is just about the time when one returns home after having served the nation, only to find the maid and the wife agog, every nerve straining, not to hear about your day, but the ‘phisss phisss’.

Which brings me to our first Mumbai maid, Ms Ragini. The Wife, believing that a clear division of responsibilities gives best results had apportioned the kitchen to the maid and one each bathroom to herself and me to fill those huge plastic buckets that all Mumbaikars keep (some had drums too). Being a thorough Mumbaikar, she (the maid, not The Wife) could be seen standing next to the tap in the kitchen with a maniacal gleam in her eyes, her entire demeanour resembling that of Lochinvar ready to ford the Eske river. I will forever remember our first day with her. Having successfully conquered the bathrooms we had reached the kitchen euphoric at our small victory, to find the extra efficient Ms Ragini had filled up every empty vessel that she could lay her hands on – bottles, buckets, cooker and handis of course, but also every empty glass, cup and katori! The only saving grace was that she had spared my peg measure! She truly ‘staid not for brake and stopped not for stone.’

On an aside, Ms Ragini, was truth be told, not Ms Ragini. She lived with another sister who too occasionally helped us out when needed. The two of them were named Sushma and Sharada by their parents. But such was their air of haughty disregard for those above them in hierarchy, and so regal their sartorial appearance that the names Ragini and Padmini just suggested themselves; leaving me with no choice but to christen them so.

Now that we are on the subject of names, Indian parents, (and Punjabis especially), are if nothing else, creative. Names such as Beauty, Dimple, Sweety, Billo crop up fairly frequently. I recall we had a maid during one of our postings in Pune, whose parents, though Maharashtrians, were presumably  more Punjabi than the Punjabis, for they had named their baby…..wait for it……..Baby! That was also the time when the stork had come calling at our abode and The Wife was expecting our first bundle of joy. However, contrary to the glow on The Wife’s face that is natural in such stages, I spent most days with a great sense of foreboding. And I’ll tell you why. The Wife being a bit challenged in her locomotory abilities would often summon me, to summon the maid. By God I used to hate that chore!

Let me paint a picture. Our house in Pune comprised a Bungalow, and the maid used to stay in an outhouse about 20 metres away within the compound. So, calling her would need me to step into the kitchen, open the door and then, beckon. Now have you tried beckoning a maid, called Baby? I have. I would need to stand on the threshold of the kitchen, cup my hands over my mouth as if holding an imaginary megaphone and croon, “Baby…..Baaaby…. Baaaby…..Babbbby”. And hence my sense of foreboding! Now Baby, perhaps because she was hard of hearing, or maybe she just loved my crooning would never appear at the first call. I often had to stand there yodelling for a good five minutes before I heard the “Aayi,  aayi Sir”. God knows how many times I had begged my wife not to task me with calling Baby.

To add to my discomfort, our neighbour was a lady, unlike Baby, of very acute hearing. She would often be out at my first call and peer over the hedge; and stand there enjoying this somewhat anachronistic scene from Romeo (Self) and Juliet (Baby). Maddeningly, she also loved regaling other ladies at any function about my lilting calls causing much mirth amongst them, and much embarrassed shoe shuffling on my part.  Damn her. And Damn baby’s parents.

PS – About 30 years later, we happened to be at the Bombay Hospital, in er, Bombay for some medical tests when we suddenly heard a lot of squealing and a lady in a nurse’s uniform yipping and hopping around us like an excited poodle. I, being cultured, put on a reserved front at this unwanted display of friendliness from an unknown lady. The Wife too seemed perplexed. Till the poodle said, “Arey, don’t you remember me? I’m Ragini!”. Much chit chat and back slapping later (not by me, The Wife) we learnt that she so liked the name that she adopted it officially, leaving me feeling a bit, should I say, proud?