In one part of the world someone has to pay a small fortune as compensation for virtually enslaving the maids, in another, guidelines for minimum wages and a leave policy for maids are being laid down. Everywhere, maids and household help have made the news. Morning conversation among the ladies as we do the rounds of our colony centres around how regular one maid is or how efficient or how pleasant the other.
I'm reluctant to confide my experience to my friends, and the other members of the family are equally cagey about what goes on behind our closed doors. All of us, for different reasons, are hesitant to admit that our maid has been with us for so long that she takes the liberty of ordering us about. In fact, we have a monster holding us to ransom within the confines of what should have been our refuge, our castle. For about an hour a day, we have this nasty, disagreeable woman cracking the whip, taking over the show and making everyone scurry to safety.
The men try and get out of the house so as not to get underfoot and not to have to explain why those size twelve muddy footprints have been left on the spanking white floor. It's no use telling her that every spot, every hair, every ant daring to cross under her glare shows up on a floor so light in colour. Obviously, she'd be happy if everyone developed wings or walked on air - anything, as long as her broom and mop doesn't have to be used. What is she there for, anyway, you might ask, but no one in the house dares to voice that question. There's no reasoning with her when she's in her cleaning frenzy - the only consolation is that her whirlwind of work rarely crosses an hour a day. Surely, for that small mercy (and not having to do it yourself), you can hold your tongue and allow her to wag hers, spitting venom at every flick!
You think it's bad while she sweeps and swabs and turns everyone to stone in various corners, feet on chairs or held in midair; but when she enters the kitchen for the mandatory preparation of the meals, it gets worse. What went earlier was only the prelude to the storm. The mutterings under her breath are somehow heard loud and clear outside.
Estimation
She'll roll only so many 'rotis' and you'd better be ready with your estimation of how many you want for breakfast and lunch and dinner. Hasty approximations are made and she gets to work in a flurry of flying flour, then comes out, arms akimbo, demanding to know why those complacent males continue to relax with their legs up and don't fetch their own breakfasts to the dining table! Such impertinence - but the men, accustomed to her daily tirade, meekly troop into the kitchen and do as they're told. Again, better to have her do her stuff even at the price of a verbal blitz than to be left to do it themselves! After all, she cooks to their taste, she never takes leave, she never fails to have the fridge full and the house clean, she comes in at the same time every morning - surely just one unpleasant hour is not too high a price to pay for such clockwork-like efficiency.
They glance at the clock - only a few more minutes. They breathe easier. There is a loud clattering of pans in the kitchen sink as she quickly washes up, then she irons the clothes and she's off. Everyone heaves a sigh of relief as the air clears. The chores for the day are over.
I rush to change for work - and somehow, in the course of the next few minutes, morph from the vitriolic maid ordering everyone about to an almost amiable lady of the house - until the next day, same time, same place, same mind-crushing, thought-squashing chores that bring out the worst in me and convert me into the monster I hate to admit is me!
Cheryl Rao is a journalist based in India.
