Can’t do with them, can’t do without them

By Renee Ranchan

SERVANTS, what is the saying, can’t do with them, can’t do without them. (Incidentally, the same is said about men.) Servants, in other words, seem to be controlling our lives. A snapshot: either ‘boy (or girl) Friday’ is on leave. The only way his ailing mother will come out of her coma or whatever is by having her darling sonny, the apple of her eyes, by her side. But wait a second had not the lad’s mother passed away at the year’s start? Too late, the boy’s already on that homeward-bound train! Or then finally, yes finally, at along last, after you have put yourself through the wringer, in running short of a training camp for the lad and he’s just about learnt it all, he vanishes. Yes, talk about disappearing into thin air.

Either the rascal (pardon me but at such times you are in the manners-what-are-they? state) thinks he’s too good for you or it’s that neighbour. Yes, the same one who has that syrupy voice and is in the habit of dropping in before lunch for a chat and chai! Of course, stays on for the mid-day meal, saying she will just have a morsel — cannot resist your cooking, you see. Yeah, you see loud and clear, at that. A hearty meal later, the lady (maybe you should replace that with women) is off. Not, however, before enquiring — in the same sugar-cubed voice — whether the domestic had ‘got a hang’ of the household chores (read cooking). Gullible you, proudly cluck in the affirmative. A few days later you bump into your ex (ex-domestic help silly, not husband!) and ask him (though you would love, absolutely love, tearing him to pieces) about his whereabouts. Better salary, better perks and so the move, he crackles telegraphically. The long and short of it? Yes, just as you suspected, your friendly neighbour lured him away.

Before we go further into the domestic-frustration (I prefer to call it pull-out-your-hair hysteria), let’s get a few things clear. Times are not the same, are they ever? And so live-in domestics are out or more or less out...Yes, we know! However, I shall in my best wise-owl voice pencil in the reasons.

Hmm, let’s see, inflation, who does not feel its pinch, bite actually. A kg of onions costs Rs 24, potatoes (yes, the homely, reliable potato) 16 rupaiya. As for tomatoes I would be jubilant if I won some in a contest. No jokes. The point is: it is tough enough to-feed yourself so where is the question of an extra mouth? Secondly, there is the space factor. Where will you house boy-Friday when you get that too-close-for-comfort feeling with your own flesh and blood, you are near ‘n’ dear ones. Yeah, one day we must meet up to discuss the flat-factor. That is what one calls the shoe-box that passes as your dream home...That flat you’ve been judiciously saving up for from day one of your marriage. Hmm, is it just me or do you too get the feeling that I am wandering? Gypsy genes, I have a bunch of them....However, I shall try not to stray. Now where were we? Servants, aah, yes!

The other reason why live-in servants are soon-to-be-extinct phenomenon is the spiralling crime. I, here in Delhi, have now restricted my evening walk to my roof-top. So what if I feel like a caged zoo animal, at least I am safe?! In ‘Dilli’ an evening stroll, even in your residential boulevard, is dicey. Currently there is a stalker that’s doing the rounds and before him there were those car abductions. Out for a pre-supper walk, a bit of exercise? A car, make that a windows-blacked-out Maruti, would zoom by, scoop you up and accelerate off. If I had it my way, no work compulsions, I would head for the hills. But gosh, it is happening again — my gypsy-genesure really, really showing up today. Servants, promise to stick to them! Of late, pick up the papers and there definitely will be one news items or the other screaming how a servant clobbered his master to death. Yup, what is the point of having a sleep-in domestic who you fear, who makes you double-check your room’s door-bolt before you can get some sleep?

Now that, that’s clear let’s cut to the heart of the matter, talk about the daily, run-of-the-mill heart-burn your day-time domestic gives you. (This goes for your live-in domestic help as well. And you thought ulcers happened only to high-flying, ever on-the-go executives, the ones that lived out of suitcases. You thought the employer did the interviewing. At least that was the way you got your job! In your maid’s case, however, it’s the reverse. She stomps in and fires and questions: Do you have a second TV? In between chores, it is mandatory for her to clock-off and curl up in front of the tube for some good, ‘much earned’ (her words) tele-viewing. And old, hand-me-downs will not be accepted — it is only new clothes for her. A new set, every quarter, is that understood? Yes sir, you nod in involuntary subservience. Then she states her salary. Each chore itemised: 250 for the floor, same for the dishes and clothes, dusting well that depends on the number and kind of bric-a-brac you have. And yes, before spouting the salary-demand she wants to know how many there are in the family. Reason? If more than four then the salary accordingly goes up. That makes sense but the same rule does not apply if you are jut two....A volley of more questions and you have finally clinched the deal — sounds like some mega-merger deal, no? Now that all the terms are settled — a pre-nuptial agreement must be far simpler — you think (naive you!) life will be more functional with this hired-help. But as goes the saying, ‘This is only the beginning’. On day one, you slink into the sofa, put your feet up and let your hair down — just for a couple of hours however! Yes the dirt’s been half-heartedly swept away and the floor is water-streaked. Mopping, surely she would know how to do it? And glide your finger through a shelve and it is dust-snowed, if you know what I mean. Maybe, the ‘help’ is better in the kitchen. You cling to that hopeful thought — those huge chunks of cauliflower, is that what you call cut and chopped?

At this point you tell her that you expect better work. And she first tells you that she is not getting any younger — being at the collapsing end of the 20s! (Yes, you heard that right!) And then she looks at you as if you’re one of those peel-me-a-grape-sort-of persons who doesn’t put in an ounce of work herself. After the reprimand she does everything in a fast-forward manner — there goes that crystal glass of yours! Come salary day and you pay her a 10-day wage — the rest of the 20 days she hadn’t shown up. Now your employee bellows like a wounded moose, pulling out all possible excuses from the book. Her kids were ill, she was ill and half the time it was raining ‘cats and dogs’ and poor she had no umbrella. But what about the leave condition, says stuttery self you. If you went out of town, you would still have to pay her but if she took leave it would be deducted — her terms, mind you! And then if there is a week-end house-guest, consider it sulk-time....an extra plate, an extra shirt, it calls for extra pay. That was nowhere in the clause you state and besides which house does not have an occasional visitor or two. You try to inject a sparrow’s breath of rationality. Around Divali and domestic help does a volte-face. Face crinkled up in smiles and tedious foot-kissing routines to match. Does not take a genius to guess why....

I could go on but the picture is pretty clear....Converse feudalism, that’s what I call it. What do you say?