Maidless in Mumbai

by Payal Kapadia

  Then again, maybe not. I’m Serena Williams playing Wimbledon centre court. I must keep my eyes on the ball, which is getting home in time for Tara’s park outing.

  Half past five, feeling like a recluse. What happened to the sense of community my work was supposed to give me? There they are, my colleagues, clamouring for the elevator in a mass exodus for home with Eddy diving in first. And on his heels, the photographer who tinkered on Facebook all day.

  I catch up with them as the doors are closing. ‘Sorry, Anu, we’re off to the new brewery,’ Eddy looks sheepish. ‘Didn’t think you’d want to come.’ All the others are waiting for me to say no so they can go on and get hammered without me.

  ‘Sure, why not?’ I slide in. I guess I’m nothing if I’m not full of surprises. A working mom breaking the mould. Wait till they see me order a dark ale and knock it back. Maybe it will get my mind off Tara and our time together in the park. Because that can happen any time, can’t it?

  21 March

  Got home late last night after winning the Miss Congeniality title for schlepping halfway across the city to grab drinks with people I can’t be bothered to go halfway across the newsroom to exchange a word with.

  Also ran into Sameer at the brewery, in animated conversation with some co-worker. An attractive female co-worker. He was obviously unworried about getting home for Tara’s park time.

  I was Ms Cold and British with my ‘Fancy seeing you here, Sameer!’ greeting, and Sameer was Mr Warm and Indian as he made the introductions. ‘Do you remember, Anu, I told you that she’s just had a baby girl, too . . .’

  The female co-worker whose name I hadn’t caught owing to a sudden bout of deafness beamed at me. While I imagined I was Medusa turning her to stone.

  Mr Oblivious rattled on about some conference that they were on their way back from. And all I cared about was how flat her stomach looked.

  Sameer finally got that whiff of something burning. ‘Come on, Anu, join us? Your work buddies can wait!’

  ‘Not here for long.’ My tone was suitably clipped.

  ‘Oh right, you’re rushing home to Tara.’

  ‘And you?’ I asked icily.

  ‘We have a lot to go over. I’ll see you later? At home?’

  As if it made perfect sense for me to go ‘rushing home to Tara’ while he boozed and schmoozed with this woman with the forgettable name. And a baby the same age as ours. And a flat stomach.

  ‘Take your time,’ I said breezily, as if I was just as relaxed about getting home late as he was. Even though I did the minute Mom called.

  Now I’m slumped on the sofa, simmering with resentment. Which makes me a captive audience for Mom’s latest lecture. ‘It’s not wise to let Tara get so used to the maid,’ she observes.

  If I pretend to be asleep, she’ll stop talking. No such luck. ‘You are leaving too many things to Deepu.’

  ‘It’s called delegation,’ I say primly, my eyes closed.

  ‘Tara won’t eat unless Deepu feeds her,’ Mom persists.

  ‘Anyone can feed her,’ I say, getting to my feet. I have been drawn against my will into proving a point. All I have to do is plunk Tara in the highchair, deposit a spoon in her hand, and present her with smart food that delivers carbs, fats and proteins in one tasteful helping. Mission accomplished.

  Tara wriggles out of my grasp, but I know a thing or two about child psychology. I marvel aloud at what an engineering feat this highchair is, and how only lucky kids get to sit in it. I scoop her up like a shipyard crane, ease her into the highchair—one, two—why is she sliding off? From the corner of my eye, I notice Mom exercising her eyebrows.

  ‘Didi, she will not sit there,’ cries Deepu. What does the maid know about internationally established best practices for feeding children? Once Tara is penned in, we’ll be in a good place. Now, if only she’d stop beating about like a bird caught indoors, I could lower this folding table over her head . . . nice and easy.

  OK, I have one of Tara’s legs in the highchair now. The other is dangling mid-air. Like a breech baby. Mom is sticking her tongue in her cheek like she wants to say something.

  I hold my ground. I must instil good habits. ‘No highchair, no food, Tara!’

  ‘Didi, may I?’ Deepu should go off and do whatever else needs doing. This dangling leg needs gentle persuasion to follow its counterpart straight into the highchair, that’s all—ouch! I feel my face where Tara just punched it in.

  My nose is in place, which has only strengthened my resolve. Gentle persuasion be damned, this calls for iron-fisted parenting. In one deft move, I force Tara’s other leg into the chair and fasten the restraining belts. I am out of breath, understandably, but so far, so good.

  ‘AAAAIEEEEEE!’ King Kong runs amuck, bellowing loudly, pounding the table and almost impaling me with the spoon.

  ‘Didi, let her be!’ begs Deepu. As if I’m the one being unreasonable here.

  I’ll drive the point home elegantly, pick up the tray and tell Tara: ‘We’re done.’

  But taking lunch away is a lost cause. The proteins are a puddle, and the carbs are a spreading stain upon the wall. Deepu heaves King Kong on one hip and marches off to the play mat.

  ‘She’s not hungry,’ I conclude. But Deepu advances the spoon, saying ‘Yum yum!’ and Tara opens her mouth obligingly. Mom purses her lips and does a little sideways nod that speaks volumes.

  Oh, well. Who wants to turn this into a power struggle? Next thing I know, Tara will grow up to be an anorexic and it’ll be my fault.

  1 April

  Monthly meeting again. ‘Anu, what’s keeping you busy these days?’ Eddy sounds like he’s making a pleasant inquiry of an aunt he hasn’t seen in ages.

  ‘Nothing much, just knitting baby booties and tending the roses.’ Imagine the look on Eddy’s face if I actually said that!

  The truth is, I’m buried in work. There have been two tough interviews, and a rescue op to bring back Poor Pia’s story from the brink of certain demise (not to mention the odd bit of after-work socialising).

  Eddy groans theatrically. ‘Is there a big story, Anu?’ That’s the problem with magazine editors. You give them one big story and they get into the habit of expecting them all the time.

  What would really appease him now is the slightest dangling of the Big Story. Just a glimpse of the iceberg, the tenth above water. But the only way this Big Story will take off is if there is one more meeting at the same hotel. And if Sanmitra records it. And if he calls me. This big, fat if is standing in my face.

  ‘I can’t talk about it yet.’ Which is saying enough.

  ‘Make it good, Anu!’ Eddy bristles, turning to Poor Pia, who worked late last night and looks like she’s been put through a paper shredder. ‘And you?’

  She picks the wrong moment to follow my cue. ‘I-I’m wo-working on something, b-but I can’t t-talk a-a-about it either—’ is all she manages and Eddy yells: ‘THIS ISN’T THE CIA, IT’S A NEWS MONTHLY, YOU HAD BLOODY WELL BETTER TALK ABOUT IT!’ The rest of us are quite inured to this editorial flailing of arms and hurling of invectives. We examine the light fixtures with cool composure and wait for Eddy’s shit fit to pass. Poor Pia bursts out crying.

  Later that day, I break my new rule about eating at the desk and take Poor Pia to lunch. ‘I want to be more like you!’ she says, sobbing.

  I coax Poor Pia to eat her soup, while I give her a whiff of this Big Story I’ve been hoping to nail. How I’ve been living and breathing this story before Tara even came along. How I’m praying for one phone call from my whistle-blower to take this forward.

  She wants to know more—who wouldn’t? She leans in, sparkly-eyed. ‘Could I help? Please?’

  Poor earnest, eager Pia. ‘I’ll let you know,’ I lie because these aren’t the sort of stories you team up with a rookie reporter for.

  ‘You promise?’ More sparkly-eyedness.

  ‘Of course!’ A little encouragement never hurt anyone, and Poor Pia needs it more than most peo
ple. She smiles through red-rimmed eyes.

  4 April

  ‘Hey, Anu, over here!’ shouts Eddy bright and early this morning. ‘You’ve heard about the Dalit march, haven’t you?’

  Yes, and now that Eddy’s so excited, I’ll have to go. Even if I’m late getting home . . . That’s when I remember. Doesn’t Mom have some university dinner to attend this evening?

  ‘So? Will you make it?’ Eddy asks. I give him the thumbs-up as I dial Sameer. He’ll cover for me.

  ‘ADN Legal, Sameer speaking!’ Sameer always sounds like someone else when he’s at work.

  ‘It’s me.’

  ‘Yes, I know.’ Still that remote, office voice designed to make others in the vicinity believe that you’re taking a work call and that you have no family.

  I brush aside my irritation. ‘Could you get home by six? Something urgent has come up.’

  He whispers: ‘I’ll be there.’

  That was simple. Ask and it shall be given unto you. ‘Thanks, I knew I could count on you—’

  ‘—No, Anu, I was speaking to someone else.’

  ‘You were telling someone else that you’d be there?’ I say this slowly because I want to be clear about this.

  ‘Yes, that’s right. Listen, got to run. You should go do what you need to, Mom’s with Tara, isn’t she?’

  ‘Mom has plans to be somewhere else. I’m asking you.’

  Another whispered ‘I’ll be right there.’ This time, I know it’s not for me.

  ‘Look, Sameer, could you step out and speak to me normally?’ I hiss.

  ‘Sorry, Anu, later.’

  Did he just hang up? I can’t believe it. Just then, my phone beeps. An SMS from him: Regional head down from Singapore. Can’t babysit this eve.

  Babysit? Is this man for real? Motherhood has stretched my stomach like chewing gum, and the father gets away with a status update on Facebook and babysitting duty on the nights he’s free?

  I battle the urge to storm Sameer’s office and tell him that he can’t parachute in and out as he pleases. That I’m the Sceptic’s most promising political reporter and not the designated juggler-in-charge at home. But losing it with Sameer will have to wait. Right now, I have to cover this march and make it home quickly.

  No wonder I have a throbbing headache a few hours later, when Eddy calls. ‘Anu, have you left the march?’ Yellow dots are exploding behind my eyes, and I’ve just found a cab to take me home.

  ‘Technically, yes,’

  Eddy ignores the technical bit. ‘Two Dalit leaders are willing to talk. Ask them about their election plans.’

  I set my jaw. Of course I know what to ask them! The cab I’d flagged down picks up someone else, and I head back into the crowd, trying Sameer’s number. Maybe he’s realized that he isn’t the only one with a career here. Maybe he’s already on his way home to Tara. Maybe World War III won’t break out after all. His phone is off.

  By pleasant contrast, Deepu picks up on the first ring: ‘Running late, Didi?’ That girl is prescient. ‘Don’t worry,’ she says. ‘I’m here. Tara is fine.’ Putting to rest all my fears in three neat little bullet points.

  I do end up worrying, which is uncalled for, because Deepu is there when I get home and Tara is fine. Sameer, on the other hand, is still MIA.

  When he comes in at last, I am Rocky in the ring, tanked up on adrenalin and my third analgesic. My head throbs to the beat of ‘Fight!’ ‘Fight!’ ‘Fight!’

  ‘Anu, we had a big problem at work today. I just couldn’t get out of it.’

  So what if he has a valid excuse? He needs to know that if he takes me for granted, there’ll be hell to pay. That my job is just as important as his.

  He says he knows. And that he’ll take over park time on Wednesdays. And that I should sleep.

  So that’s it? He won’t give me one measly fight when I’ve stayed up for it? And how could he have passed out on the bed before I’ve thrown a single punch?

  7 April

  Poor Pia has thrown the punch this morning. There are chocolates on my desk with a card: Thank you for lunch, Supermom!

  That’s it. I’ll march to her desk right now and tell her that this Supermom thing is getting out of hand. Except that it would be very hard to do this with chocolates tucked under my arm. Why don’t I take the chocolates home for Deepu instead? After all, she’s the only one I can count on completely.

  The box of chocolates turns out to be Pandora’s box. All the miseries of the world come tumbling out. ‘Chocolates for the maid!’ snorts MIL (home for Holi fortnight even though Holi lasts only a day). ‘You’re spoiling Deepu.’

  Which is slightly untrue, because I’m spoiling everyone. It’s called going back to work and getting a life. I’ve tipped the liftman. (Remember, he ferries Deepu up and down, and I wouldn’t want him filling her ears with gossip about other jobs in the building.) I’ve hired a new cleaner, Jyotibai, and a new cook, Motibai, to replace the nomads we had earlier. And I’ve charmed the local grocer into making home deliveries by letting it slide that he’s padding his bills. So, yes, I’ve been making friends and influencing people so I can return to work. What’s wrong with that?

  ‘You know nothing about running a house,’ declares MIL.

  As though it’s any different from running a newsmagazine. You hire capable people; give them clear tasks; pay them well; and keep them motivated. All I’ve done is to leverage my substantial corporate experience and transfer it to the domestic arena.

  ‘You have to keep them on their toes, Anu,’ says MIL. The thing is, I do. I up their salaries without their asking; hand out zero-interest loans and write off repayment; I even give them a Diwali bonus when it’s not Diwali.

  If my army of workers is happy, Deepu is happy. If Deepu is happy, Tara is happy. If Tara is happy, I am happy. I’m just spreading the happiness around, that’s all.

  8 April

  There’s something depressing about lunging for the telephone all day. Being just one hypothetical ring away from Sanmitra’s voice, and Mom’s voice cutting through instead to tell me that Tara is sleeping. Or eating. Or not.

  Strange, how news of Tara sends my Big Story thoughts scattering. Is Tara napping enough/growing fine/eating all food groups?

  My productivity has shrunk like a ‘DRY CLEAN ONLY’ dress that ended up in the washing machine.

  Minutes per day spent:

  Gossiping with colleagues

  Down to zero

  Going for after-work drinks

  Near zero

  Nipping out for lunch

  Ditto

  Brown-nosing Eddy

  Sigh

  Minutes per day spent:

  Receiving/making update calls home

  30

  Thinking about Tara

  60 (whittled down from 120) best not counted

  Making lists of Tara’s shots; new foods to introduce; and all the bad things that could happen to her while I’m working.

  Will I ever forget, for a single moment, that I’m a mom?

  9 April

  Just a week after promising to take over on Wednesdays, Sameer sends me a frantic SMS. Big client meeting. Need to bail on park time today. Please?

  We’re teammates, raising Tara together. I shouldn’t be harbouring any grudges about doing more than he is. I shouldn’t be drawing a chart and marking a big, fat cross against this Wednesday.

  I should just wait graciously for the day when Sameer crawls back begging for forgiveness. And then I should show him that chart full of crosses and make him feel as small as a microbe.

  Despicable me.

  16 April

  In a dramatic departure from standard operating procedure, Sameer has called at 5 p.m. every evening since last Wednesday’s cop-out. ‘Need me home early?’ he asks.

  Need? Doesn’t he want to come home early? Because Tara is his child as much as she is mine?

  So I say no. Letting that single word hang in the air between us. Because it serves hi
m right for chasing after partnership. And leaving me to raise our child with the maid.

  18 April

  There is absolutely nothing wrong with Deepu knowing more about Tara than I do. Like how she prefers apple puree to pear. Or how her favourite bib is the yellow one. Or that she eats with only the pink spoon.

  Mom’s words burrow beneath my skin like parasites. ‘Watch out, Anu, Deepu is becoming indispensable.’

  Tara’s bedtime rolls around and along with it, the spontaneous idea of putting her to sleep. Like Michelle does in New York. Like moms everywhere do. No hard-edged cutlery or gloopy food to watch out for, just soft pillows and cuddly blankets. How hard could it be?

  Deepu hesitates: ‘Are you sure?’ Which is a little annoying, because I taught her everything she knows.

  I put Tara in her cot. Just as the books say I should. ‘Good night, Tara!’ That’s that. End of discussion. Silence? I count up to ten in my head. Still silence? Tara must be asleep. Wow, that was instantaneous!

  ‘Ta-ta?’ A pair of tiny hands have appeared on the cot railing, followed by a very cute head. Feeling foolish now.

  ‘Ta-ta, Tara!’ I am gentle but firm. Tara sits down in her cot. Clever girl, she gets it.

  ‘Ta-ta?’ Then again, maybe she doesn’t.

  ‘Ta-ta?’ Cute. Like a jack-in-the-box. Can’t help giving her one last snuggly kiss.

  ‘Ta-ta?’ OK, snuggly kiss has given her the wrong impression. Must appear disengaged.

  ‘Ta-ta?’ I glance at the glow-in-the-dark clock. Feeling firm and not so gentle now.

  I hoist Tara over the cot railing and pat her urgently. ‘Ta-ta?’ I put her on my lap.

  I’ll be in the moment. I won’t get so attached to the outcome. Pat-pat . . . it’s working! Pat-pat . . . did I send that questionnaire out for tomorrow’s interview? Maybe I can jimmy the phone out of my pocket . . . pat-pat . . . ‘No, Tara, let go of Mummy’s phone!’