Maidless in Mumbai
Page 5
Expressing self-righteous indignation with such vigour has made beads of sweat appear on two separate upper lips.
‘Your part-timers are taking advantage of you,’ adds Mom, at her incendiary best.
‘—Treating this place like a hotel,’ MIL throws ghee in the fire. ‘Checking in and out as they please.’
I can’t understand what all the fuss is. The movements of our part-time cleaner Sanjubai and our part-time cook Manjubai were always peripheral to our existence. It suited us fine to scrounge around our messy home, eating leftovers, if the part-timers didn’t show.
Just then the doorbell rings. Let it be Manjubai, I pray. It’s a courier delivery guy.
‘My parcel, Madam!’ yells Maria, rushing past me to sign the delivery bill. ‘Last minute deals on Amazon!’
Mom arches one eyebrow meaningfully. ‘She shops online, so what?’ I say when Maria is out of earshot. ‘She’s a nanny, not a maid.’
I scurry to answer a few more doorbells. No Manjubai. Only more shoes. And a belt. Also three lipsticks. All for Maria.
‘Girls these days are so scared of their maids,’ says Mom.
‘Chheeee! What is there to be scared of?’ says MIL, competing with Mom for the national bravery award.
‘Look at the two of you!’ I clap my hands slowly. ‘Exchanging tales of valour like six-year-old boys!’
They behave like they haven’t heard me. ‘I am not scared of any maid,’ says MIL, slurping her tea and burping like a battle horn. ‘The maid should be scared of us.’
‘Quite right,’ says Mom, in battle-tank mode. ‘I’ll tell her off, right and left, if she crosses my path. That Lady Diana
that Anu has gone and gotten herself has so much nakhra and
naatak!’
‘Behaves like a madam herself!’ agrees MIL.
‘Maids, nannies, they’re all the same,’ rejoins Mom. ‘If one leaves, another will come.’
The Proxy Moms are on a roll. ‘It’s wonderful to see the two of you sunbathing in the warm glow of mutual agreement,’ I retort. Alas, my cleverness is lost on them. Is this really happening? Could my mother and my mother-in-law have become the same person?
12 Sept
‘Maria is thinking of me on her day off, isn’t that sweet?’ I show the Proxy Moms her friend request on Facebook.
‘So now the two of you are friends?’ Mom says drily, scrutinizing Maria’s FB profile.
‘Yes, we are,’ I try not to sound too smug. ‘She’s a nanny, not a maid. Though I could just as easily be friends with her if she was a maid—’
I’m all fired up by my egalitarianism.
‘Anu, isn’t this yours?’ Mom is pointing at Maria’s profile photo. So she is wearing a red dress. A familiar red dress. Which happens to look a lot like my red dress. My red dress that is still in my closet. Wait a minute. The picture looks like it’s been taken in my closet.
‘Friends borrow each other’s clothes all the time . . .’ I trail off. I can barely look my mother in the eye.
19 Sept
Three months down, maidless again. Maybe I’ll carve tally marks on Tara’s cot with a sharp pencil later. I’ll put up a giant billboard across all twenty floors of the Air India building; a blimp above the Arabian Sea that can be seen along the entire Mumbai coastline; a TV ad strategically aired right before Kaun Banega Crorepati. The message in Hindi and Marathi, too (just in case prospective maid is watching): MAID WANTED. BAI CHAHIYE. BAI PAHIJE. CALL 9-8-N-E-E-D-M-A-I-D.
For now, must celebrate Tara’s third month in business (especially as we kind of lost track of the first and the second).
‘Happy Birthday, Zara!’ says MIL. I want to throttle her, but Sameer is watching, so I hug her instead.
‘Yum, yum!’ I say, ‘Yum, yum!’ as I lunge for a third helping of cake.
‘Yum, yum!’ thinks Tara, ‘Yum, yum!’ as she lunges for my breast. I feel bloated-with-cake and gassy as I reach for the Baby & You magazine Sameer got me the other day. I stare in disbelief at the cover: ‘Five Signs of Postpartum Depression.’
The answer to endless maid thoughts is staring me in the face.
1. Anxiety (nails reduced to nothing)
2. Irritability (congenial nature irrevocably altered)
3. Sleeplessness (daytime sleepiness on account of night-time sleeplessness)
4. Crying episodes (only slightly less frequent than Tara’s)
5. Reduced libido (sleep vs sex. Sleep is winning.)
Just as I feared. I am sick, sick, sick. That explains it all.
22 Sept
Sleep. Need sleep. Feels like I’m wading through water. Worn my clothes inside out. Speech slurring. Movements slow. Meanwhile, I notice that New Father is looking surprisingly well-fed (courtesy MIL) and well-rested (courtesy me). I try to recall Mom’s last words before she left today: ‘Don’t expect any miracles, Anu, your dad wasn’t any different when you were little.’
Mom doesn’t know how determined I can be. Starting tonight, I decide, New Mother will work a miracle. New Mother will curl up and sleep. New Father will walk the baby. Maybe, New Mother, all rested in the morning, will show New Father a good time. And New Father, energized by the good time he’s been shown, will go and manage Ma at last.
The plan fails. Tara cries, but New Father has died in his sleep. Maybe it is because he ate too many of his mother’s parathas. Maybe it is because he went out for office drinks after work. Does New Mother care? Hardly. She takes New Father’s pulse. Alive by a huge margin.
Through the thick grey cloud of postpartum depression, New Mother can see a silver lining. If New Father is still alive, New Mother could have the pleasure of killing him with her own two hands!
New Mother shoves New Father off the bed. As New Father has still not learnt how to levitate, he is resurrected from the dead. Like Jesus.
‘Bring the baby!’ New Mother shrieks, forsaking the poise for which she is renowned. New Father staggers to the cot and gives New Mother a hateful look. Just in case you are feeling sorry for New Father, let it be noted here that New Father does not see the error of his ways and beg for forgiveness. New Mother does not sleep more soundly than New Father.
His colleague calls the next morning. ‘Is Sameer running late? We’re meeting an important client in an hour.’
‘It was a bad night,’ I say. ‘He woke up once.’
‘He? I thought you had a daughter.’
‘I do,’ I say. ‘I meant my husband.’
23 Sept
Sameer is all apologies. ‘I’m sorry, sweetheart, I don’t know what happened.’
I will be cold and distant and make him suffer while I reflect on how Tara has been bad for our marriage. Dozed off on the john while reflecting. Should have dozed off on the scales instead. I’m fat.
Just as I am grappling with body image issues, Michelle calls from New York. ‘Alexander is in a wonderful day care and I’m back at work,’ she says. ‘You must already be on your next big story!’
Michelle has struck a match. My six months of maternity leave are vaporising before my eyes. What will I do if I can’t find a maid and train her in time to resume work on the second of January? From ‘promising reporter and opinion maker,’ will I forever become the ‘sleepless mom whose opinions no one gives a toss about’?
The more I think about it, the more it makes perfect sense. If I get a maid, I could hit the gym and get into my jeans. If I get into my jeans, I could go off to work. If I go off to work, I could write the story of the year. It’s a simple flowchart in which everything is related. The maid is the panacea.
30 Sept
No leads so far in The Baffling Case of the Missing Maid. Last night, I dreamed of a roaring noise. Long lines of maids outside my house, shrieking in fear, hair flying in the wind, as the Bermuda Triangle threatened to rip them away like passengers sucked out the open door of a flying aircraft . . .
Turns out, it was only Sameer snoring. Flipped him all night like a lobster
on a grill to stop the wretched sound from waking up Tara.
2 Oct
Christmas or not, all I want is one silent night.
4 Oct
What do I get for giving Sameer the cold shoulder? A hot-water bottle as he tucks me into bed, and that’s not all: ‘Let’s go out for dinner tomorrow, just you and me?’
‘We’ll see.’ Let him stew for a while.
He plants a kiss. Mmmm, nice. Passive aggressiveness scores one over open communication.
‘Tell you what? I’ll be daddy on duty tonight, give you your beauty sleep?’ Mmmm, even nicer.
Tara cries at 3 a.m. This is where daddy on duty is meant to wake up with a sprightly jump, but the snoring that has woken Tara has deafened him. He can feel pain, though. A few hard shoves from me till there is no more bed under him, and he wakes up with a jump. It’s unsightly, not sprightly, but who’s splitting hairs here? I’ll just turn the other way and sink into my pillow . . .
‘Anu? Anu? Which side would you like to feed her?’
‘Huh? Durnt matter . . .’ Too groggy to form words. ‘Check nappy, maybe she’s wet, not hungry . . .’
I close my eyes again. Ah! Sleep . . .
‘Anu? Anu? It is her nappy . . .’
‘Huh? Great. Change it.’ My mouth feels like it has a wet nappy stuffed inside it.
‘Anu? Anu? Where do I find fresh nappies?’
Growing in the meadow. Please let me sleep. ‘In that drawer.’ I am slurring.
‘Which one? This one?’
Daddies on duty should know where the bloody nappies are! I point blearily in the right direction. Eyes rolling back in head.
‘Anu? Anu? Where should I ditch the wet nappy?’
‘Bucket. Bathroom.’
‘Never mind, threw it in with our laundry.’
Dumb Daddy.
‘Where are the cotton swabs, if you don’t mind?’ More groaning. More pointing. I do mind.
‘Anu? Anu? Now she’s hungry.’ Sameer lays Tara down beside me. I am half-dead with sleep.
‘Anu? Anu? Are you done feeding her?’
‘Yeah, burp her.’ And leave me to die in peace.
‘Anu? Anu? Where’s the burp cloth?’
‘Dunno, Sameer, go away.’
‘Anu? Anu?’
I have jumped up with the sprightliness I had foolishly expected from daddy on duty. My head has spun 360 degrees, like that possessed child in The Exorcist, and I spit green venom: ‘Why are you whispering, Sameer?’
‘Because you’re sleeping,’ he says. His face is the very portrait of consideration.
‘I WAS SLEEPING, NOW I’M WIDE AWAKE!’
Oct 8
Bad run. Meanwhile my friends have been eating out, drinking wine . . .
‘Hello? Anu, it’s only 11 a.m. on a Sunday, are you nuts?’ Mansi sounds groggy when she answers.
. . . and sleeping in. Why did I waste my babyless-and-free days playing with other people’s babies at the park, in airports, at restaurants? I should have spent my babyless-and-free days sleeping.
11 Oct
There, I tell myself, it’s getting better. My world is expanding. Tara is ready for a daily stroll in the pram. Our apartment complex has a playground that I never bothered to set foot in before I had Tara, but this is where we go now.
A dozen-odd children are playing on the swings and in the sandbox, ringed by a dozen-odd maids, who wipe their runny noses, shove food into their mouths and slap them when no one is looking.
The two mothers on the bench are always here, I’ve seen them before. One looks like a giant amoeba. An air of perpetual exhaustion hangs over her. The other one looks like she hasn’t eaten in a year. The stick.
‘Join us!’ Stick says, shrinking to a sliver. Her eyebrows have been plucked in such an exaggerated arch, they make her look worried. Maybe I’d look worried, too, if my five-year-old were hanging upside down from the monkey bars.
Amoeba makes a show of moving up but doesn’t. ‘Mommy!’ shouts her son, missing a rung as he climbs up the slide. ‘Yes, coming!’ she cries, resettling her weight upon the creaking bench.
Between Amoeba and Stick, they have created twelve inches of space for me. My butt isn’t as small as it used to be, but I squeeze in anyway. There are brief bouts of baby-related conversation, but mostly, we stare ahead and say nothing. Like this were some strange form of playground meditation.
‘I like that one,’ says Amoeba, pointing at a young maid who plays Catch with a child. Both maid and child are laughing loudly.
‘Hmm, nice!’ says Stick, all appreciation. ‘Better than her!’
They turn their gaze on a maid in uniform who is scarfing her child’s snack straight out of the box.
‘God knows how that one’s madam always manages to find decent maids!’ says Stick, pointing to a maid in a starched sari.
They marvel at that unnamed madam’s good fortune before picking out other maids on the playground. Some they covet, others they detest. We’re boys on the beach, checking out the babes. Our silent communing is an intense round of maid-watching.
‘Come again,’ they say when I get up to go. ‘We are always here.’
Always. That word is like a death knell. I must find a maid—fast.
15 Oct
Behind every successful woman, there is a maid.
17 Oct
Funny thing. I thought Sameer’s snoring was waking up Tara, but it’s helping her sleep. Must lie awake and prod Sameer. Just in case he stops making all that white noise and she wakes up.
19 Oct
I lunge for the door. Nirmala, the new maid! Damn, and why did Mom pick this day, of all days, to get here early?
‘I’ll be right in!’ I sing, giving Mom a slight push in the general direction of our home, but she lingers. No Nonsense Nirmala lists her demands like she’s reading off of a menu. ‘Three sets of nighties, two towels, two pillowcases, one blanket, shampoo, a separate conditioner, please!’ (She did say please.)
‘Shower gel, soap dries up my skin,’ she says (which makes sense). What else?
‘A mobile phone plan. Fish, twice a week. Two hours of afternoon naptime. And a Bengali newspaper subscription, because in Calcutta, everyone reads the paper.’
Mom looks like she’s about to say something insulting. ‘Why did you quit your last job?’ I cut in hastily.
‘Six years I worked for them, and they didn’t give me broccoli.’
‘Anything you don’t want?’ Mom asks, looking daggers.
‘No kich-kich, baba!’ she says. ‘Kich-kich makes my head turn.’ Which also makes sense, because she’s a thorough professional, and which thorough professional likes to be told how to do her job?
‘Done!’ I declare. My heart thuds, my palms sweat, but my face is a placid lake. ‘Can you start now?’
Nirmala walks in. Mom stops talking to me.
26 Oct
Tara’s colic is on its way out. The paediatrician is taking my calls again. I’ve hit the gym and dropped a kilo. I’ve also speed-read Spock and Sears. Soon, I’ll know everything there is to know about raising a child.
‘Youngsters nowadays believe everything they read in books instead of listening to their elders,’ says MIL.
‘The science of raising children keeps changing,’ I say primly.
‘Changing!’ scoffs Mom. ‘Parenting isn’t some fad!’
I don’t give a hoot what they say. I have Nirmala. Life is looking up.
30 Oct
Remember Sonia, my bestie, the one whose baby slid right out of her? Today she celebrates the day she slid out of her mom. I’ve been meaning to have a word with her about how it’s morally reprehensible to feed prospective mothers such swill. But it’s her birthday. Must be nice to her today.
The whole march-past gang is there. We were in the marching band at school, although we had nothing much in common then—besides the left-right, left-right business. Come to think of it, we have nothing much in common now.
‘New mom, looking resplendent!’ gushes Bhavna, who sees resplendence where there is none. ‘Shaved my legs, it was wonderful!’
‘Dug wax out of my ears, it was incredible!’ ‘Moved my bowels, it was magical’—that sort of thing.
That she is still so moony about motherhood (with both boys off at boarding school) is a great setback for the feminist movement, but it’s probably because she married a hands-on guy. He’s that rare breed who’d rather help with the kids than be out drinking with the boys. Sameer calls him a sham artist.
‘How’s it going?’ drawls Nina, going through the effort of raising one eyebrow in acknowledgement of company. She suffers us because we went to school with her. We suffer her for the same reason. Nina is a stay-at-home mom who’s never home. She’s more likely found at Zumba classes, spas, hair salons and restaurants. She has three maids, one for each child, and travels all the time. Without her kids, or with her kids and her maids, but never with her kids alone. I mean, never.
Then there’s Sonia, working mom of two, ‘one planned, one an accident.’ Sonia will never stay at home because full-time mothering drives her mad (and so does her mother-in-law). Her husband is a hands-off dad. Sameer calls him the real thing, but his only saving grace is the dowry he came with: his childhood maid, Janaki.
Mansi completes the group. She’s the busy ad-exec who has no plans to have kids. The only reason she’s turned up for lunch is because we’ve promised not to talk about them.
Sonia has already cornered the maître d’ to her side of the table; made a quick cost-value assessment of the set menu over the â la carte options; and squeezed in one call to Janaki, the other to her team. I am consumed with admiration for the working mom.
‘Happy birthday, Sonia!’ We clink our wine glasses, although one of us has only water in hers.
‘To Anu, too!’ says Sonia. ‘Returning to the ranks of the working moms!’
Suddenly I feel unsure. ‘How will I manage . . .’