Found this post in OPEN-PAGE(The
Hindu).
It is too good:)
Sunday is a day I look forward to,
like everyone else. Preparations for the weekend start from Saturday itself. I
work half day and prefer not to give many appointments or post major surgeries
for that day (thus reducing my weekend stress from any unexpected
post-operative complication); enjoy a heavy lunch at home and a divine
afternoon siesta (pesky calls and neighbours' dog permitting). The evening is
spent in the company of friends or quietly at home watching a good movie
(thanks to the liberal choice of movie channels). A couple of pegs of good
scotch — even Scream 3 seems tolerable!
The next day I wake up late — the
only day I am not woken up by the persistent clamour of the alarm. With
difficulty, I open my eyes to the glare of sunlight streaming through the
window — my better half has thoughtfully left the curtains wide open lest I waste
too much of this lovely morning in bed. I loiter around the house with an
unshaven chin, doing odd jobs (whether or not they require my expertise) and
since I am in the mood, prepare French toast for my son for breakfast — the
only culinary talent I possess and guaranteed to keep my wife out of the
kitchen for the rest of the morning. The weekend is going on just fine.
Well… until the maid makes her
entrance!
Suddenly, priorities change. The
breadwinner of the family, who has been working hard throughout the week, doing
delicate surgeries and saving people's lives, is no longer someone who has to
be indulged — but a clumsy, jobless character who is just in the way of the
super-efficient, hardcore professional who needs to finish this shift before
moving on to the next one. I try my best to stay away from her area of furious
activity — but am far too sluggish.
Hearing her dusting the bedroom
upstairs, I put the computer on in the living room, hoping to check my mail.
But no sooner the Windows logo disappears from the screen than she is down
attacking a different window and my wife orders me up. I sulk and go to the
television room, hoping to catch the morning headlines — but I am told curtly
that I cannot watch TV. She has only finished the dusting upstairs and will be
coming up again to do sweeping and mopping. I am asked to finish my bath, as it
would be another 15 minutes before she reaches the bathroom. Under the
circumstances, I decide, the bathroom would be the safest haven for me right
then.
Just as I am revelling in a
leisurely hot shower — for once without the weekday irritations from the early
morning calls of highly strung anaesthetists (who always seem to find that
precise moment to call to inform you that your patient is ready to be
anaesthetised and say ‘could you hurry up please') — I hear a loud banging on
my bathroom door. I turn off the shower, hurriedly wipe myself and with the
towel wrapped around anxiously open the door; certain that it has to be either
of the two domestic emergencies — the lizard that I scared off last week is
back in the kitchen or my mother is on the phone. It turns out to be neither. I
see my consort's face, flushed from rushing up the stairs,
“Maid no. 2 has come early today and
she wants the washing clothes. She is in a hurry as she has to go to the Sunday
market.”
After a detailed analysis of the
habits and behavioural patterns of maids in our locality, my shrewd spouse arrived
at the profound conclusion that the most cost-effective method of retaining
maids is by distributing jobs. This way she would not be at the whims and
fancies of any one of them and even when one went on leave or quit, the others
could chip in and thus maintain domestic harmony. I could never remember their
names — for by the time I managed to, someone else had already taken her place.
My enterprising wife had discovered a novel way for me to identify them — they
were referred to by the jobs they did.
After ensuring that Maid no. 2 is
not denied the pleasures of her Sunday shopping, I debate whether to continue
my shower or not. I decide against it as Maid no. 1 is now almost ready to
start with the bathroom — and she would do her job irrespective of whether I
was under the shower or not.
Half an hour later, my wife is up
again. There is a concerned look on her face.
“No. 3 has stomach pain since last
night and says she cannot work today. Can you give her some medicines? And do
not give her what you gave last time. She said that it did not work and made
her worse.”
I frown. I could not remember their
names — how, heavens above, was I expected to remember what medicine I gave her
three months ago? I rummage through our medicine chest, pretending to peer wisely
at the names on the packing and hand over some anti-spasmodic.
“This is the latest and will
definitely work.”
“One more thing; No. 1 has already
left or else I would have asked her to do the dishes. Naturally, I cannot cook
today — you will have to eat yesterday's leftovers. Unless you prefer to take
us out for lunch.”
“Leftovers are fine.” I sigh.
