Employing a cook
My parents and in laws houses ran smoothly. They all had the
same cooks for many years, people who grew
old with them and were like part of the family. When I got married, and went to
live on a college campus, I did not imagine any problem in finding a domestic.
I discovered, to my consternation that
present day employees are a far cry from
the devoted old time servants. Good help was practically impossible to find.
The women who applied for the job were a breed by themselves. Usually fat, or
dirty or with unkempt hair or obviously using snuff or with betel stained lips
and teeth. I did not want them cooking my food.
Since I also had a baby, everyone decided that I needed a lady who would stay the night.
That was fine, I would not be alone with
the children when my husband had night duty. We finally imported one from
Kerala.
The woman was a lunatic. She decided that everyone was in
love with her. When guests came to the house, even if they so much as glanced
in her direction she claimed that they were in love with her. She avoided the
milkman, the bread-man the electrician, plumber and anyone else who came to the
house. Before she leapt out of their way though she did smile coyly at them and
had accidents wherein the pallu of her
saree kept falling down.
“The milkman smiles at me all the time “ she said one day,
“do you think he is handsome?”
I had not really noticed him but I had a good look the
next morning. He was fat, sweaty with a pungent body odour and not very clean
clothes. He did however have light brown eyes, which were very unusual. He had
a habit of staring unblinkingly with those eyes. This was creepy for me but
obviously sexy for her. He was also married with three children.
In the evening she took to standing near the gate and having
long conversations with him. After a couple of weeks of this, and despite many
warnings, I decided the situation was getting out of control but did not know
what to do. Then her abdomen started to protrude. On enquiry she admitted that
she had “missed” 6 months. I took her to the hospital. The ultrasound showed a
32 week fetus. I confronted the milk man who admitted that she let him in every
night after we were asleep.
She had the baby and gave it to the missionaries of charity
for adoption. I decided enough was enough. I had been doing most of the cooking
for the last three months anyway. Also, the “handsome” milkman had started
hanging around the gate once again. I told her I was booking a ticket for her
to go home. “I will kill myself,” she said “if you send me home.”. I had to
arrange for my office manager to escort her to Kerala. Unnerved by this I lived
without a cook for 3 months.
The strain then began to show. Cooking three meals and getting two children
ready for school with completed projects and homework then going in to work
became a herculean task. I started to become irritable.
A few women came for an interview. One seemed ideal. Her
husband had deserted her, she lived with her parents and brothers. Her cooking
was adequate. After a few months I noticed that my provision bills had started
to go up. I arrived home unexpectedly one day to find her brother and father
being fed.
“This will not do,” I
said. There was a great deal of trepidation in my heart as I thought she would
quit.
Fortunately, she
continued to come. Her elder brother came to drop her off and pick her up. If I
was late he politely hung around the garden. Apparently he was studying to
become a preacher. After a few months she too developed a paunch. Eating too
much perhaps? No that was not it. She was well along (eight months to be exact)
before reality struck me. “Who is the father ?” I asked. “My brother” she said.
“Is he your real brother?” “Yes” she said leaving me speechless.
Days progressed and I did not know what to do. Then one day
when I came home from work, there was a squalling male bundle of joy left on
the verandah. I made another trip to the missionaries of charity. They were
beginning to look at me askance. I almost imagined disbelief in their faces.
Bitten twice, I hired a married woman with two children. We
all got scabies because she mixed her personal laundry with ours in the washing
machine. Then one day she yelled at the children and refused to give them lunch
because they were disobedient. They pushed her into a room and bolted the door.
She had been banging on the door a good two hours before I reached home. She
flounced out calling my children “devils.” My daughter said,” she is not going
to get into her house.” “How do you know?” I asked. “We flushed her house keys
down the toilet!”
She never came back, not even to collect the two weeks
salary I owed her.
The last one was really good. She told me we needed 50 kilos
of rice and 15 kilos of wheat flour a month. Every day we needed two kilos of
vegetables and one of fruits. It was only when she took a two week vacation and
I bought the same quantity that I realized what was happening. Fifty kilos of
rice is a sack! I think I must have been feeding her whole family. We parted
with mutual acrimony.
I now have male domestic help. They are more expensive but
not likely to get pregnant. I also keep a wary eye on food quantities. Lets see
how long it lasts!
Dr.
Gita Mathai
The
writer is a paediatrician with a family practice at Vellore.
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have any questions on health issues please write to
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