Maidless in Mumbai

by Payal Kapadia

  ‘I’ll be quick,’ continues the maid. ‘I won’t wash the baby’s nappies and I won’t wipe her clean, either.’

  I like how she gets down to the nitty-gritties before we’ve introduced ourselves, but Mom doesn’t. Like the evil stepmother banishing Snow White to the forest, Mom tells the maid to be gone. As the elevator descends with her inside it, my heart sinks, too.

  27 July

  Come to think of it, Mom’s right. The maid we turned away had way too much attitude—who needs that? Tara will grow up before I know it. All this will be over in the blink of an eye. And I’ll be filled with regret because I frittered away Tara’s childhood looking for a maid. Who I am bound to find at some point, right?

  Bhavna drops in and gets all broody. ‘Awww, been years since I held a little baby! I hope you’re taking pictures? Enjoying every precious minute with this precious little—’

  Now I’m worried, why didn’t I think of it earlier? I must document the miracle that is motherhood before my baby girl morphs into a full-grown woman like one of those time-lapse films.

  I spend all day taking pictures of Tara and sending them off to friends. (Even to Sonia, who has been forgiven.) With captions: Baby sleeping. Baby sleeping again. Baby sleeping yet again. In between, I get three calls from prospective maids. Just goes to show that good things come to those who stand and wait. More photographs. Baby sleeping. Baby crying. Short break from photography to change nappies, breastfeed, pacify both moms, call paediatrician on their behest, and suffer paediatric slights against all mothers. Back to baby smiling (though that last one is only Tara passing wind).

  Sameer is home! I am dying to make conversation with someone who is of my own generation, awake, not pumped on estrogen, not a maternal relative, not a medical professional, not a paid functionary.

  Sameer tells me about his coffee meeting with a dynamic entrepreneur; an important account he landed; and the office buzz about the new hire, some woman like me who’s just had a baby. ‘What did you do all day, anyway?’ he asks.

  Do? Suddenly my day has shrivelled like overcooked cabbage. What made me think that the nitty-gritties of raising a human being from scratch could make for interesting conversation?

  30 July

  It’s raining maids—hallelujah! Rammi has drawn her hair back neatly in a long braid. Her previous employers aren’t dead—they’ve just moved to some unknown destination. She is such an improvement on the previous maid we interviewed, which just goes to show that it was wise not jumping for the first person who comes along. (Although I’m all for jumping for the second person who comes along.)

  I look at her with longing. Cleverly disguised as nonchalance.

  Rammi states her numbers (salary, not vital stats or cell-phone coordinates). MIL is aghast. She claps her hand over her heart like it is about to seize up. ‘It’s the going rate these days,’ Rammi persists.

  ‘You’ll have to do all the baby’s work,’ I hastily interject before MIL gets carried away with the theatrics and collapses on the floor. ‘And give me three days’ notice before you go on leave.’ I like how firm I sound. I’m the employer. If I don’t lay down the terms of employment, who will?

  ‘Of course,’ she says.

  ‘We’ll pay half,’ says MIL, cutting down the maid with her machete, and without so much as a blink of the eye.

  In a blink of the eye, she’s gone. Inside my body, things are exploding and imploding, veins are constricting, cells are collapsing. Outside, I am the very image of placidity. Like MIL’s telly-yogi.

  ‘Don’t throw away your husband’s earnings on these cunning people,’ says MIL. ‘They’re all out to fleece you.’

  What about throwing away your husband’s mom?

  7 Aug

  I carried my tragic tales to Mom—who else can I tell? But alas, MIL’s spirit has entered Mom’s body. ‘What’s wrong with being choosy?’

  So we spend the week being choosy. We refuse the young maid in high heels and dangly earrings.

  ‘Too fancy!’ hisses MIL. ‘Won’t be able to run after the baby in those tick-tocks of hers!’

  ‘The baby can’t run either,’ I observe.

  ‘I tell you, she’ll ask for lipstick and lotion as soon as you let her in!’ foresees MIL. ‘And she definitely has a boyfriend!’

  We turn away the middle-aged matron you could smell from a mile away. ‘I think I’ve cleared my sinuses,’ says Mom, best deadpan expression on.

  The maid whose eyes don’t agree to look in the same direction stumps all of us. ‘Which of us is she speaking to?’ whispers Mom. ‘I don’t know,’ mutters MIL. I have no idea either. All I know is that this isn’t going anywhere without bilateral symmetry.

  The old one who coughs on the baby fares no better. ‘How long have you been coughing like this?’ asks Mom with fake concern, signalling with her eyes for Tara to be moved out of the line of flying sputum.

  ‘Only (cough cough) a (cough cough) week!’ says the poor lady.

  ‘It sounds terrible . . .’ Mom gingerly wipes a questionable looking droplet off her wrist.

  ‘Not (cough cough) bad at (cough cough) all! The phlegm is on its way out.’ The maid expectorates loudly to seal the argument.

  ‘Definitely TB!’ pronounces Mom, shutting the door with a shudder and popping a vitamin.

  I have taken an instant liking to them all, which only goes to show that a fine discerning nature is acquired with practice. Thank God I have Mom to curate these maids for me.

  Besides, all this waiting for the perfect maid is building character. I can feel myself becoming stronger. All I have to do is tell Sameer to drop that New Father Look. Get Tara over her nasty crying habit. Stoke Mom’s memories of motherhood so she can be of some real help. And tell MIL in a doubly sweet way that she should return to Igatpuri. After all, how many people does it take to raise a baby?

  10 Aug

  There’s a five-letter word for madness in babies. COLIC. A colicky baby is worse than a rabid dog.

  I call the paediatrician again, but for some reason she is playing as hard to get as the maid.

  15 Aug

  No more leads on a maid. Have a sick feeling that the maids we turned away were the last of their kind on the planet.

  Sonia’s default SMS kicks in after ring three: In a mtg. Briefly?

  I message back. No maid, baby crying nonstop, MIL staying forever. Brief enough.

  Her reply: You’re screwed. Just as brief.

  Tara is sticking her pinkie into my cochlear canal. Her digital exploration of my ear has just bought me five minutes of downtime. Maybe I’ll draw a pie chart of my day . . .

  First quarter (coloured red like pizza): Doing everything for Tara. Oh, except breathing and pooping.

  Second quarter (coloured yellow like spinach & bacon quiche): Looking for the perfect maid.

  Third quarter (coloured brown like chocolate mousse gateau): Worrying about when that perfect maid will show up.

  Last quarter (coloured purple like blueberry cheesecake): Worrying that my worrying is doing me no good.

  Hell. Why does my day look like comfort food?

  18 Aug

  Eyes on screensaver mode all day. Sameer sneezed twice last night, and Tara decided that it wasn’t worth the bother going back to sleep at all.

  Still having endless maid thoughts. Six maids have called in the last week. None have shown up. Could they be:

  1. Crank calling to toy with my feelings?

  2. Swallowed up by the Bermuda Triangle outside my door?

  3. Abducted by body-snatching aliens?

  4. Within reach but in camouflage?

  5. Spooked by Tara’s crying, audible till city limits?

  Maybe good maids are worth waiting for. Like good husbands. Then again, wait too long, and only the old, fat and bald ones will be left. But even those will do.

  20 Aug

  An uneasy suspicion is now a full-blown fact. Mom and MIL have joined the Proxy Moms Club. Proxy Mo
ms have many common activities to bring them together. Such as occupying homes with babies in them. Sipping tea. Dispensing advice more freely than food rations from the Red Cross. Bullying Birth Moms. Oh, and driving away potential maids.

  ‘We can do everything on our own!’ the Proxy Moms say, wildly excited with their sick new form of the Swadeshi movement. Again, that we? Who the hell is we?

  ‘Were you watching a baby massage DVD earlier today?’ Mom is cracking up now in a way that isn’t funny at all.

  I’m not getting drawn into a futile two vs one debate. I switch on the DVD player and the titles come up.

  Actions speak louder than words, so I rub baby oil on Tara’s back. Bold, confident strokes. Because I am a bold, confident mother.

  ‘She’s turning pink,’ says Mom. Tara’s arms are flushed where I just rubbed oil over them.

  ‘Pink of health!’ I say.

  MIL has abandoned her tea to marvel at this display of maternal prowess. I am making circles with my palms. Now Tara’s legs are flushed. Who’d have thought a simple massage could deliver such instant benefits?

  There is a reverent hush in the audience. I’m doing little pinching movements on Tara’s shoulders. (They’re not on the DVD, but you don’t have to follow these instructional videos to the last letter.)

  Tara starts crying. Maybe this massage is some sort of catharsis for her. Letting go of negativity. More crying. Quite evidently, lots of negativity.

  I make the circular motions tighter. Wider. Smaller. Larger. Clockwise. Maybe anti-clockwise? Tara is screaming bloody murder. The baby in the DVD looks happier. The mother, too. My audience looks doubtful now. I smile to allay their fears.

  ‘I guess you got the blood circulation going nicely,’ admits Mom after Tara has collapsed into an exhausted sleep.

  ‘See?’ I tell her, congratulating myself on a coup de grace.

  ‘See what?’ says the paediatrician later that evening when Tara has turned red as a lobster and I’ve taken her in. ‘The oil has given her an allergy, don’t massage her again!’

  28 Aug

  Poor Pia calls for help with a story. ‘OK, stay calm. What do you have so far?’

  She doesn’t have much, so I tell her who to call, what to look up. I’m talking fast because she has lots to cover, and Eddy gets impatient when a story is cooking, and then it strikes me . . . how much I miss this head rush, this feeling that a tangle of information is coming together in a meaningful way.

  My conversation with Poor Pia has made me strong again. I am Mount Vesuvius, towering over my circumstances. I hold on to the feeling for as long as I can.

  Which isn’t long enough. Tara is crying again. The Proxy Moms are asking me what to do, now that the situation is clearly out of hand. How should I know? I saw the Mom Wanted sign on the door and bumbled in, that’s all. Prior experience? Zero.

  ‘If you ask me why the baby is crying one more time,’ I warn Mom, ‘or ask me to give her more milk,’ I warn MIL, ‘I’ll call the paediatrician and she’ll strike me off her patient list forever. How would you like that?’

  I can’t afford to make an empty threat with these people. The paediatrician comes on the phone right away. ‘What seems to be the problem?’ She sounds peeved. I’d be peeved, too, if I spent all day with a roomful of disgruntled babies.

  ‘Tara is crying.’ Peeved lady has hung up on me.

  ‘Don’t piss off the paediatrician,’ says Sameer when I’ve downloaded the day for him in all its dismalness. ‘Even if it’s just to get back at our moms!’

  ‘Then do something about yours!’ I retort.

  ‘I’ll manage Ma,’ he says. ‘Don’t you worry.’

  Ha! A big fat ha!

  31 Aug

  Dos and Don’ts for September:

  1. DO keep Maternal Squatters away during the maid interview by putting Bearded Baba on full volume, or meeting the maid in a secret location. DON’T make maid interviews public knowledge.

  2. DO master the voice, which is everything. DON’T show despair. DO show burning need, though.

  3. DO be firm about the salary. DON’T hesitate to triple initial offer at the first sign of failure.

  4. DO be the very picture of bonhomie. Exchange pleasantries with the maid and let her assume that the baby has inherited your cheerful disposition. DON’T mention anything about long bouts of unexplained crying (mostly on the baby’s part).

  5. DO point out that you don’t insist upon the maid cleaning baby bottoms/baby nappies/baby clothes. DON’T feel any compulsion to be perfectly honest about the actual work. Perfect honesty can come later when the maid and you are friends.

  6. DO ensure the maid stays by hiding her footwear as soon as you hire her. DO this in a stealthy way. DON’T freak her out, of course.

  2 Sept

  More guests. Hiding in my room behind the breastfeeding excuse.

  The hair on Tara’s head has grown. When did this happen? I spread it out evenly with my fingers, a curious tenderness welling up inside me. Is this what maternal love is all about, not bursting out of you, fully formed, like the baby, but following later? Creeping up on you and seeping into you slowly?

  The business of feeding another human being has made this human being ravenously hungry…

  Ugh. What do I get for putting on a proper bra and stepping outside to say hello? A big fat nothing. No one has brought any chocolate. What I have instead is a bunch of relatives on a fishing expedition.

  1. Was it too hard? (Nope. Got it done while painting my toenails, doing stomach crunches and flossing my teeth. Everyday stuff.)

  2. Did I take an epidural? (Trick question. What my guests really want to know is whether I’m Sissymom or Supermom. Supermoms give birth while painting toenails, doing stomach crunches and flossing teeth, and without an epidural.)

  What’s this? A missed call from a not-in-phonebook number. This can only mean one thing. Somewhere on this blue orb known as Earth, there’s a maid in search of a job. In search of me. I shoot up: ‘Work call!’

  I can hear MIL telling our guests: ‘Zara is such a pretty name, even Sameer likes it, but Anu is so stuck on Tara . . .’

  ‘Are you still looking for a nanny? I’m Maria, Madam!’

  What fluent English! I am already singing that song about the hills being alive with the sound of music when—‘May I come see you now?’

  ‘Here?’ I look around me fearfully. ‘No!’ That came out a little brusque. ‘What I mean is,’ I lower my voice, ‘I’ll see you around the corner . . .’

  Maria and I have a rendezvous at the nearest ATM. ‘I am a nanny, not a maid,’ says Maria, crossing her arms. ‘I can read and write in English, follow recipes, and type.’

  Not sure how typing helps, but Maria’s impressive CV floors me, and we seal the deal in minutes. I smuggle Maria into the house like contraband before joining the guests. Flushed from the subterfuge, but like nothing has happened, that’s me.

  ‘—Madhumasi was just asking how the breastfeeding is going . . .’ says MIL in a tone that might be mistaken for affectionate concern.

  When the fact-finding mission gets up to leave at last, Maria darts to the door to see them out. ‘Who is this fancy-shmancy?’ MIL whispers sharply, waving goodbye to our guests, broad smile in place.

  ‘The new nanny!’ I say, my broad smile in place, too. I should conceal my glee better.

  ‘Looks just like us,’ mutters MIL, as though it’s some crime for a maid to wear sleek trousers, smart ballet flats and lipstick. Also, mascara, but I’m sure MIL hasn’t noticed that. Besides, she’s a nanny, not a maid.

  MIL takes one last parting shot before sallying off to catch up on Bearded Baba. ‘No one will be able to tell the maid from the memsahib here.’

  4 Sept

  Babies are hard work, but maids are harder. After you find a maid (using echolocation and GPS), you have to retain her (which isn’t as easy as bolting the door once she’s in). You must take her under your wing—although Maria
could lift one fleshy arm and tuck me under it if she wanted to.

  I map the house and everything in it:

  ‘Towels, Madam?’

  ‘There.’

  ‘Nappies, Madam?’

  ‘Here.’

  ‘Maternal Squatters, Madam?’ ‘Outside.’ (Dream sequence.)

  Maria is my very own homegrown version of Poor Pia. ‘If you have a question, come only to me,’ I tell her, indicating that the Proxy Moms are not in charge of domestic affairs. Even if they pretend to be.

  Take Mom, who is putting on her best headmistress voice. ‘Maria, why are you following Anu everywhere like a duckling?’

  ‘Psst, you can’t talk to her like this, Mom!’ Nannies are limited resources, like groundwater or fossil fuel. To be handled with care.

  ‘Like what? Hey, Maria, are you going to take all day to fold nappies?’

  Like that.

  Maria rolls her eyes: ‘Moms! They’re the same everywhere.’

  MIL has a minor coronary. ‘She’s sitting on your bed!’ she gasps, like Maria is invisible/deaf/doesn’t understand what we are saying.

  ‘Yes, I am,’ says Maria, ‘because I’m a nanny, not a maid.’

  Suddenly, I’m not sure if nannies are supposed to fold all the nappies, so I take half the pile off of her hands. ‘She will get spoiled and lazy if you do all the work,’ says MIL.

  ‘No, I won’t,’ says Maria, winking at me. ‘All mothers-in-law are also the same.’

  9 Sept

  The females in this house are going at each other like particles in the Large Hadron Collider. Utensils, bangles and opinions clang; Tara cries; and the doorbell never stops ringing. Today, it has rung once less than it should have, and the Proxy Moms are heaving their bosoms in consternation.

  ‘Get on the phone, Anu,’ Mom’s voice bristles with anger. ‘Tell that Manjubai to turn up for work or face the consequences.’

  ‘Just to be clear, what consequences exactly?’ I think this is a valid question.

  Mom throws up her arms in exasperation.

  ‘Cut. Her. Pay,’ declares MIL, delivering each word with the heft of an entire sentence.

  ‘Throw. Her. Out,’ declares Mom, adopting the same dialogue delivery.