Holy crap! Where did the questionnaire go?
Back to the cot. We wrestle. Tara is hanging from my hair like those prickly seeds that snag in your clothes when Deepu pops her head in. ‘OK, Didi?’
Of course I’m OK, but Deepu takes Tara and she quiets down like magic.
‘She loves you,’ I tell Deepu as I slip out, picking good sportsmanship over petty competitiveness.
22 April
Working Mom must take notes on work-life balance from Shirking Dad. Work is the messy stuff: wiping bums, ducking food and weathering tantrums. This is Deepu’s job.
Life is the photogenic stuff: reading to Tara, making slobbery public displays of affection, and ducking out at the first sign of a tantrum. That job is mine.
25 April
Big stories are like maids. The harder you pursue them, the more they elude you. Sanmitra hasn’t called. I must not think about the Big Story. It will be like the elephant in the room. What elephant? What Big Story?
28 April
This army of workers I’ve congratulated myself on building is nothing but a ragtag bunch of deserters and cripples! Jyotibai has decided only to sweep, not swab. Your job, I tell her in my trademark firm/gentle style, is to sweep and swab. ‘You mean, even the corners and under the cupboards where no one can see?’ she asks. ‘That will cost extra.’
I see, her current salary covers only the visible floor space. As mistress of the house, I must lay down the law. And slip in the tiniest increment to make my point.
I troubleshoot with Motibai next, because it won’t do to employ a cook whose movements the stars cannot foretell. On the five-minute walk from her house to mine, she has twisted her foot; fainted; had an epileptic fit; suffered a stroke; experienced a mild cardiac seizure; and gotten roughed up by a mob. On separate occasions, of course. All at once would be really stretching it.
I give her a stern dressing-down, undaunted by the way she brandishes her frying pan. Or how she says, ‘Cooks are hard to find . . .’ I am my no-nonsense self all the way to the door.
‘I’m leaving!’ she says, pulling rank on me.
‘No need to get worked up,’ I say. ‘We’ll eat whenever you come.’
1 May
While I’ve been scrounging for something small but respectable to throw Eddy’s way and keeping my homegrown army from staging a coup, Poor Pia steals the show by proposing a cover story.
At home, Deepu is in top form. ‘Will you whip up a quick lunch?’ I ask her when Motibai does a no-show. ‘Will you rinse out this mess?’ I ask her when Jyotibai leaves the floor covered with soapsuds. She does it all and she makes it look easy.
‘If there’s anything you need, Deepu, you can tell me.’ I am overflowing with gratitude.
She shakes her head shyly, but I press her foolishly for an answer. ‘There must be something . . .’
‘There is . . .’ she says slowly.
‘Yes, go on?’ Feeling big-hearted and benevolent.
‘I’d like to join a sewing class.’
Ah, how lovely! Maybe she’ll make itty-bitty dresses for Tara?
Deepu twirls her braid uneasily. ‘One day, Tara will grow up and I won’t be needed any more.’
I’m stunned. That’s not true. Deepu can live with us happily forever after.
‘If I can sew, I’ll still be able to earn,’ she says. ‘What choices will I have otherwise?’
I’m impressed. This is a sublime thought. As fellow-women, we need to make good choices. As fellow-women, we need to support each other through those choices. Except that Deepu’s sewing class is two hours every afternoon, Monday to Friday.
‘There’d be no one to look after Tara,’ I say softly, feeling like a hypocrite.
‘I thought so,’ she says quickly. ‘Forget about it, Didi.’
I feel terrible at first, but it’s not like Deepu expects me to agree. Why else would she tell me to forget about it? She knows that I can’t choose to go to work if she chooses to go to sewing class.
I’ll just buy her a cell phone. She’ll like that just as much as sewing class. Because a cell phone and a secure future are totally interchangeable things.
3 May
The threat to a perfect maid rears its ugly head from many quarters.
‘Deepu is hooked to that cell phone you gave her,’ bemoans Mom.
Would have been worse if she’d trotted off to sewing class all week, I want to say but don’t. ‘I’ll tell her to use it responsibly,’ I respond instead. ‘You haven’t said anything to her, have you?’
Mom is vexingly noncommittal. ‘If I have, it’s only for her own good.’
Now I’m worried. Deepu is my biggest ally, my greatest supporter, my perfect maid. I must protect her from maternal wellmeaningers like Mom and MIL.
I must also protect her from maidless moms. I bump into one at a birthday party, someone I remember knowing remotely on the mommy circuit.
‘How have you been?’ I ask.
‘Both my maids ran off with both my drivers.’
Funny. You ask any woman who isn’t in the company of her husband how she is, and she takes it that you’re asking about her maids.
‘Haven’t found a decent maid in two months,’ she continues.
I condole with her.
‘The ones who turn up have no brains.’
‘That’s so true . . .’ I try to make my voice ring with empathy.
‘Even a pair of helping hands would do.’
‘Yes, they would.’ We could be discussing organ donation.
‘A good heart, if nothing else.’
And just like that, we have disembodied the maid.
5 May
‘Your maid is so good with Tara,’ the maidless mom from the party has called to say. ‘What’s her name?’
‘Deepu,’ I blurt. Stupid me. Dangling my perfect maid in her face would be like offering a finger to a piranha.
‘Where did you find her?’
‘Oh . . . just around. Here and there.’ Keeping it vague is the most sensible approach.
‘Ask her to find someone for me, please?’
‘Of course I will,’ I lie.
‘You’ll meet all sorts of predatory madams,’ I tutor Deepu later. ‘Stay away from them.’
6 May
Tara is playing on the bed when she says it. Her second word. For a moment, I think I’ve imagined it. She says it again. I steal a quick look in Sameer’s direction—has he heard it? No, which means I can pretend I haven’t either.
‘Did Tara say something?’ Damn.
‘Of course not.’
Sameer draws closer to Tara. ‘Anu, I swear I heard her say—’
‘Deepu!’
Tara smiles as though she likes how the word tastes on her tongue. Sameer laughs, which is so man of him. He doesn’t have to battle any insecurities about why Tara has said Deepu’s name before his. He doesn’t stay up nights wondering why he isn’t as important to his child as the maid is. Instead, he can respond with the simple-minded delight that you’d expect from a primate who, having chanced across a grenade, has picked it up, sniffed at it and popped the pin, when it goes—‘Deepu!’
This is the moment where I’m supposed to mirror my partner’s buffoonish reaction with my own. I clap my hands in a show of exuberance. ‘Wow! That’s amazing!’
She says it again. ‘Deepu.’
I smile hard, somewhere between deliriously happily and borderline psychotic.
‘You OK, Anu?’
Why wouldn’t I be? Tara is just a baby. You can’t hold a grudge against a baby, right? It’s not like it’s a whose-name-gets-to-be-said-first sort of race. Or like Tara loves Deepu more than she loves me.
9 May
Now, on the complete off-chance that my child does love her maid more than she loves me, I can be a great sport about it. ‘Deepu, Tara loves you.’
See? Notice the remarkable absence of any wistfulness in my voice as I say this? Women bring each other down all th
e time. Not Deepu and I. We can coexist harmoniously like harem wives. No rancour. No jealousy. Just sisterly goodwill.
Deepu stares into Tara’s eyes. ‘Who do you love more, Deepu or Mummy?’ Oh great. My sisterly goodwill has created Frankenstein.
‘Deepu!’ Tara screams. This is silly. Anyone can see that there’s no question of any competition here.
A bright, spontaneous idea crosses my mind. I’ll take Tara to the park alone.
‘Who needs a maid?’ I whisper to Tara after I’ve heaved the stroller up the garden steps, chased down one errant ball and biffed a battery-operated doll who breaks into song for no apparent reason. ‘Say “Mummy,” Tara, say “Mummy”. No pressure there, but try, will you?’
‘Deepu!’ The stubborn little thing.
‘Say “Mummy!” and I’ll give you a sweetie!’ God, have I stooped so low?
‘Deepu!’ Why has Deepu turned up when I’ve kept her busy at home? Tara wriggles free and toddles to her favourite person.
Deepu grins. ‘I knew Tara would miss me.’
We play Catch. I run around at top speed, yelling ‘Catch me, Tara, catch me!’ but it turns out that I’m not that much of a catch and Tara is only interested in chasing Deepu.
‘Poor mummy!’ says Deepu in a disconcerting way. ‘Chase her, too, Tara!’
I should be counting my blessings. Wouldn’t most people give an arm and a leg for a maid that their child could love? Instead, I torment a few blades of grass into tiny pieces.
‘Why are you sulking?’ Sameer has surprised us by dropping in.
I look pointedly at my child and my maid, playing together like they’re the only two people on the planet.
‘Are you jealous?’ There is no way I could own up to that and come out smelling like roses. There is also no way I could lie and get past Sameer’s bullshit barometer. I look away.
‘You’re reading too much into this,’ he says. ‘Come, Tara, let’s walk home!’
Tara has no trouble holding his hand, but when I grab the other, she screams, ‘Deepu!’
Gallant me. I can always bring up the rear. Someone’s got to drag the stroller home and lug the baby bag. And biff the annoying battery-operated doll a few times when no one is looking.
13 May
I feel a frisson of excitement as I breeze through the glass doors of the Sceptic. I’m here, where I should be, striving tirelessly towards the great things I was destined to do with my life. Instead of having a turf war with the perfect maid.
‘A quick word, please?’ Eddy summons me to his cabin and nods in the direction of Poor Pia. ‘Could you take a look at what she has on that cover story? I think she’s lost.’
I look around wildly for any excuse that might be in the vicinity. ‘I don’t want to—I mean I shouldn’t—this is her story . . .’
The nub of the matter is, ever since I told Poor Pia to stop calling me Supermom, she’s been behaving like a child who’s just found out she’s been adopted.
‘Come on, Anu, stop pretending that she can pull this off on her own. We all know how much she depends on you.’
Of course she depends on me—hasn’t she always? My problem is, I doubt that I could be anything less than totally honest when I see Poor Pia’s story. It’ll probably be a mess, like her desk, which is wallpapered with masses of handwritten notes. And her face, which has pen-marks all over it. And her hair, which is more mussed up than usual.
‘How’s it going, Pia?’ I venture.
Dark, broody silence. Pia turns her screen towards me so that I can look at what she’s written so far. I suppress my irritation. Sometimes that girl can be so immature. ‘Maybe I could give you a few pointers . . .’
‘Of course.’ Her voice is chilly enough to bring on a brain freeze, but her story pulls me in.
‘That’s a great opening!’ Truth is, I couldn’t have written a better opening myself.
‘Really?’ Pia’s voice is a few degrees warmer now.
‘And this bit is impressive . . .’ I read on in silence.
‘What else does it need?’ Poor Pia’s gnawing anxiety is back. She has nothing to be anxious about, can’t she see that?
‘It’s brilliant, Pia,’ I say at last. I’ve read it twice. ‘I didn’t know you could write like that!’
‘I was only trying to write like you,’ she says.
I can feel Spring returning to our relationship, green buds nudging up from the soil . . .
15 May
Mom says that Deepu is spoiling faster than last week’s milk. ‘Do you think Tara will eat and sleep if Deepu leaves?’
‘Of course she will,’ I chime. I’m doing my perfect impersonation of a calm, confident mother. It’s not like maternal wisdom is spring water distilled through centuries of experience. Or like Deepu is going to leave me in the lurch one day, and Tara is going to waste away and stay awake for years on end.
19 May
I am slowly being replaced both at home and at work. Eddy sends me an SMS: Drop everything else. Help Poor Pia.
Can everyone stop calling her Poor Pia? With a phone to each ear, a half-chewed pencil in her mouth and a keyboard superglued to her fingers, she’s the maven of multitasking.
Halfway to Pia’s desk, my phone rings. I know it’s Sanmitra even before I’ve heard his voice.
‘Is it happening?’ I keep my voice even.
‘Are you still interested?’ Interested? I haven’t thought of anything else for weeks.
‘Is there another meeting?’ My voice is rising a little.
‘On May 29. The entire restaurant has been booked.’
Fireworks are going off in my head now. ‘That’s great news —’
‘I don’t know . . .’
Is he having second thoughts? ‘Look, Sanmitra, when this dam gets built, you’ll lose your village, your fields, your livelihood.’
I can’t have him backing out now. ‘If you help me to tell this story, if we record this meeting, the scandal will rock the nation. We could stop this dam together.’
The voice on the other end gathers into a fever pitch of agitation. ‘You say “we” but I’m the one they’ll come after if something goes wrong . . .’
I can think of a million things to say, but I don’t say them.
‘How do we know that someone hasn’t tipped them off already?’
I grip the phone so hard, I’m afraid it might dissolve between my fingers.
‘What if they’re on to me?’
My breath catches in my throat. I am too terrified to speak. It’s taken us almost two years to get to this point!
‘I am a poor man. I have a family—’ His voice breaks.
‘—They will be homeless when the dam is built.’
There is a long silence. I can hear him thinking. If I say anything more, I will end up crossing a fine line. And blowing my only chance to tell this story. I know, with every bone in my body, that he must blink first. The idea to go ahead with this must come from him.
‘I make no promises, do you understand?’ he says at last.
‘Yes.’ My breath is ragged, my heart scudding at a thousand beats a minute. Pia has stopped chewing her pencil and stares at me.
‘If this meeting is called off, that’s it. No more.’
I stand a hair’s breadth away from the biggest story of my career. I cannot let go of it now. Or leave it to the questionable judgment of a man who is clearly spooked and has every reason to be. If I need to hold his hand, look into his eyes and swear my eternal love to him, I’ll do it.
‘I’ll come there!’ I say before I’ve thought it through.
‘Too risky!’
‘You’ll need to get that footage off your hands as soon as the meeting is over,’ I persist. ‘Have you thought of that?’ I have his attention now. ‘Slip the memory card under my door and go. No one will ever know!’
Sanmitra is back in the game for now. I return to my desk with renewed speed. I call the hotel and reserve a room in a fictitious
name. I chart out the difficult journey to Sanmitra’s town. The flight, the road trip, I have this all planned out in my head. And then I think of Tara . . . How can I leave her and go anywhere right now?
Eddy is heading my way. ‘How does it look, Anu?’ He casts a worried look in Pia’s direction. The pile of papers on her desk has grown larger still.
‘It’s better than it looks.’
He looks relieved. ‘I knew you’d work your magic on it, Anu!’
‘I didn’t do anything. I just read it through. Her story was perfect!’
Eddy breaks into a slow smile and waggles a finger at me. ‘I know you don’t want to hog the credit here, Anu, but you really spoil that girl, you know?’
He walks off, shaking his head and chuckling. Past Poor Pia who is growing out of her chair like some strange new form of office vegetation. I stare at the sign on my desk till it blurs. Special Correspondent. I feel considerably less than special. I need this Big Story. It’s not about saving villages and lives any more. It’s about saving me.
18 May
Tara said ‘Mummy’. I missed it. I cajole Tara to say ‘Mummy’ again. She doesn’t oblige.
19 May
Tara says ‘Mummy’ again. Not to me. To Deepu.
Nursing dark visions of my future. When I am old and grey, Deepu will be old and grey, too. Tara will be tending to Deepu. I will be in an old-age home, forsaken, forgotten. I am losing my perfect child to the perfect maid.
20 May
I don’t need this now. I’m a week away from the Big Story, and Mom and Deepu have had a heated exchange. ‘Deepu is on her cell phone all the time,’ says Mom. ‘The one you bought her.’
Well, what does she want a girl to do with her cell phone if she can’t yap on it?
‘Do you think there’s a boy involved, Anu?’
I don’t know about any boy, but there’s too much girl energy for one house, that’s for sure.
‘I need to travel for that story I told you about next week,’ I warn Sameer. ‘You’ll be around, right?’
Sameer looks frazzled. ‘Well, yes, but it’s not a good time. We’re signing on a big client.’
Maidless in Mumbai Page 9