In Servitude

While my husband and I heaved the suitcases out of the trunk of the car (note: by ourselves), our three-year old ran into the house, excited to be back home from an India-vacation.


Checking each room, she came back with a puzzled expression on her face.


“Where are our servants, mama?”


I sat her down, gently placed two hands on her shoulders and replied: “You’re looking at them, kid.”


One of the toughest situations I had to face after getting married and moving to the States was the ‘No Servant’ deal. I do not remember signing up for the position of scullery maid. What I do remember is getting married to a guy in sixteen days…to someone I never met before in my life. No big deal. Moving my life to a new country forever. Piece of cake. Leaving my family behind – it would be painful, but doable.


But, no servants? Fuggedaboutit!


I had questions:
Did I had to make my own coffee in the morning? Who would squeeze the oranges for my juice? Use a vacuum cleaner? Who would make a garam rotlis and shaak for lunch and serve it on a thali? Who would dust the furniture and mop the grungy floors? And did people in the States really iron their own clothes?


To which I gave my own answers: Yes, me, me, me, me and yes.


There would be no dhobi to wash and iron the clothes. No vasanwali to wash the dirty dishes. No one to make lunch. Nor dinner. In fact, no cook. Would I really have to make my own food? Um, slight problem there. I did not know how. Never made a cup of coffee. Not even washed a dish. In fact, never lit a stove in 28 years.


To my credit, I had taken a Tarla Dalal class in the 70s, but the only memory I have left of it is a file full of recipes. And she never taught us how to light a stove anyway.






A month after I got married and moved to the States, my father paid us a visit, worried about the daughter he married off so quickly and sent 10,000 miles away. Now he worries? ‘A bit late, what!’ I thought. In private, he asked in a whisper, whether my new husband was treating me well.


The temptation to quip ‘No, he beats me every day in front of his mistress to show me who’s the boss’ was inviting. But my father was not known for appreciating sarcasm. Once, during my college years, he caught me fighting with both my sisters. Intervening patiently, he asked me that since I was doing a Minor in Psychology, why I didn’t practice it on them. I told him I was sorry but I had not yet reached the chapter on ‘Abnormal Psychology’. We were not amused.


Managing to convince him that indeed I was as happy as a pig in a poke, we drove home in the Volvo. This fine piece of Swedish automotive innovation was apparently not good enough for his precious (and favorite) daughter.


“How about I send you a Mercedes?” he asked, as casually as someone asking if he could mail a postcard from Germany.


“How about no, Daddy”, I replied.


Luckily, the house met his expectations: a four-bedroom house on a quiet cul-de-sac in a beautiful town in Orange County. Most Indian brides followed their green-card-carrying husbands to a one-bedroom rented apartment. I was luckier than most. We even had a panoramic view from the backyard. But still, no servants.


After a good night’s rest, he came out of the guest room, to see me with a broom in my hand. He gasped and ran back into his room…to get a camera.


“Hold it like you are sweeping, beti.”
(I AM sweeping, Dad, and don’t you dare take my picture.)


“Could you wash a few dishes for me and look this way? “
(Could I use them as Frisbees and throw them out the window?)


“Look up, look here, but pretend to iron.”
(Will you pretend to be amazed when I use it to iron your camera?)


Back in India, he gave the pictures to be developed at the lab - the lab, meaning Central Camera, which my father owned and where I had worked for eight years before my marriage (yes, nepotism is alive and well in India). The photos were viewed by all the employees, who were totally aghast at Madam looking just like their own servants…with a broom, a mop, an iron and a frying pan. Bets were made as to how long the marriage would last and I would be back as the Joint Managing Director.


Twenty-eight years later, their ex-boss is alive and well…and still cooking and cleaning in Mission Viejo.


Glossary:


garam rotlis: hot rotis (tortillas)


shaak: vegetables


thali: plate