I’m an ardent fan of Shobhaa De. Not the writer Shobhaa De. I like the columnist better. But I must admit, it’s her persona that makes me her fan. I simply love her way of that no nonsense talking style.
However, I didn’t and couldn’t agree with even Shobhaa, when she said in one of her magazine interviews a few months back, that Bais are the great time managers.
But then I didn’t meet Manisha, my part time helper. I cannot call her Bai because she simply doesn’t fit into that term.
I first met her when I shifted to South Mumbai from Malad about a year back. As my friend introduced Manisha to me, my first thought was ‘could this pretty face with a fragile frame deliver’? Moreover, she was already working with four families.
As I expressed my doubts, my friend assured me ‘She’s the best in this building and she doesn’t even do chuttis. She wants the money also.’ I gave in.
As Manisha started working for me. I gradually came to know her routine. Her day starts at about 5-30 in the morning every day. She finishes all her chores at her own home, including cooking for the day, before starting her work at our building. She’s at my place sharp at 8-15 after finishing her work at my friend’s place.
In between her work, she makes three trips (you got it right…three trips) to her daughters’ school, which is about a kilometer and in the East Grant Road, because both her daughters have different timing in the same school.
As I see a tired but smiling Manisha finish her day at about 10-30 at night, I wonder each & every night--where does she find those stamina?
I’m flabbergasted by her expertise, the flair with which she delivers her duty to the satisfaction of each and every member of five families. It’s awesome—something I never experienced anywhere in India and trust me-- I’ve been going to many parts of this country with my husband’s posting.
There must be many more Manishas in Mumbai---who become like a friend and also a source of encouragement to many like me.
I salute them all for they can actually beat any top management company with their skill.
You were right again Shobhaa!
Monday, July 23, 2007
Thursday, April 5, 2007
Tussle
The tussle between my head & heart
Is getting more & more intense
I try to go up the ladder
I want to listen to all that my heart says
But suddenly head pulls me back
Scolding gets from bad to worse
As I weep…
Both head & heart stand by me—
Hand in hand
Both embrace me.
Serenity reinstated
As they make truce
The tussle between my head & heart
Is getting more & more intense
I try to go up the ladder
I want to listen to all that my heart says
But suddenly head pulls me back
Scolding gets from bad to worse
As I weep…
Both head & heart stand by me—
Hand in hand
Both embrace me.
Serenity reinstated
As they make truce
Tuesday, January 9, 2007
The assault on my honesty
My niece was astonished that I offered to sit on the bench outside her ATM while she withdraws her money.
“Why should you sit there? Come, come. Come inside with me.”
I reluctantly went into that glass cubicle remembering how I enjoyed watching my friends and relatives as they inserted their magic cards and saw the fascinating machine giving out the amount of money they needed. I was truly captivated by the act of that machine. I still am. But I’m equally impressed by all such machines, including the one which give out colorful bubblegum balls. Somehow, whenever I see them, I always remember the story I heard from my nani about that forest which had full of gold trees with diamonds and pearls as their fruits.
It’s been a while since I’m inside this cubicle. For a long time now, I prefer to sit or stand outside ATMs while the card owners go inside and get the money.
It was a rainy day. I accompanied my best friend, who’s new to the city, to help her find an ATM. As our taxi waited outside, I ran behind my friend to the machine to watch her withdraw money.
“You needn’t come. I’ll manage.”
“No, no. I just want to watch you withdraw.” I was too excited to see her disapproving face.
The assault on my honesty and integrity was severe. Unexpected and absolute. The manicured hand that blocked my view from reaching the keyboard was too heavy on my heart. And my decision about not entering an ATM with anybody was instant.
“Why should you sit there? Come, come. Come inside with me.”
I reluctantly went into that glass cubicle remembering how I enjoyed watching my friends and relatives as they inserted their magic cards and saw the fascinating machine giving out the amount of money they needed. I was truly captivated by the act of that machine. I still am. But I’m equally impressed by all such machines, including the one which give out colorful bubblegum balls. Somehow, whenever I see them, I always remember the story I heard from my nani about that forest which had full of gold trees with diamonds and pearls as their fruits.
It’s been a while since I’m inside this cubicle. For a long time now, I prefer to sit or stand outside ATMs while the card owners go inside and get the money.
It was a rainy day. I accompanied my best friend, who’s new to the city, to help her find an ATM. As our taxi waited outside, I ran behind my friend to the machine to watch her withdraw money.
“You needn’t come. I’ll manage.”
“No, no. I just want to watch you withdraw.” I was too excited to see her disapproving face.
The assault on my honesty and integrity was severe. Unexpected and absolute. The manicured hand that blocked my view from reaching the keyboard was too heavy on my heart. And my decision about not entering an ATM with anybody was instant.
Tuesday, November 28, 2006
I'm so happy that I took that ride
I don't like to travel by bus. I prefer a train. In a city like Mumbai it's inevitable I suppose. But sometimes you get to see or meet something or somebody so special in Mumbai streets that it makes the whole experience worthwhile and it leaves a mark deep inside you.Going to my sons' school makes me sick. Not that they are bad in studies-both of them are doing really well. But they are doing equally well in all the mischief areas. So, invariably I land up listening to all the complaints the class teacher piles up to pour on me the moment she sees me on that special day i.e infront of all other parents. Sometimes I question their ability--and ask myself-' are they actually equipped to teach the next generation?'
It was a regular weekday-in a hot mumbai summer.I started at the Malad West bus stop as that's the only way I could go to my sons' school.
Was it near the fire station or was it the Malwani stop? I don't remember properly; but I remember one thing clearly--there were many of them. Wearing sky blue half shirts and nevy blue pants. Unlike my sons there were hardly any shoe or tie to go with their uniforms. Most of them were wearing hawai chappals or faded flotters.
'Tere paas kitna hai?'The whisper was loud enough for my ear.
'ek rupaiya. dekh to woh sahi me charh nehi paya kya?'
the two little boys-just about the same age as my sons-were nervous that their friend who had the moneyfor the bus fare couldn't board the bus. It's natural. I can't even imagine my sons travelling in a bus all alone like this.
'main madad kar sakti hu?' the mother inside me prompted to utter the words.
'nehin, nehin auntie. thik hai.'
' mere paas kafi change hai, de du?'I offered again.
' nenin.' came the firm reply. 'jyada se jyada hum dono ko ek stop paidal jana parega, bas.'
My instinct said that I shouldn't hurt their feelings. I didn't want to assult their pride.Their self respect. But just the thought of these two small boys walking about a mile under the hot summer sun made me wanted to cry.
I gulped down my tears. Seeing them getting down made me happy and sad at the same time. Happy because they are the next generation--with the right amount of pride and self respect. Sad because my sons are not like them.
I don't like to travel by bus. I prefer a train. In a city like Mumbai it's inevitable I suppose. But sometimes you get to see or meet something or somebody so special in Mumbai streets that it makes the whole experience worthwhile and it leaves a mark deep inside you.Going to my sons' school makes me sick. Not that they are bad in studies-both of them are doing really well. But they are doing equally well in all the mischief areas. So, invariably I land up listening to all the complaints the class teacher piles up to pour on me the moment she sees me on that special day i.e infront of all other parents. Sometimes I question their ability--and ask myself-' are they actually equipped to teach the next generation?'
It was a regular weekday-in a hot mumbai summer.I started at the Malad West bus stop as that's the only way I could go to my sons' school.
Was it near the fire station or was it the Malwani stop? I don't remember properly; but I remember one thing clearly--there were many of them. Wearing sky blue half shirts and nevy blue pants. Unlike my sons there were hardly any shoe or tie to go with their uniforms. Most of them were wearing hawai chappals or faded flotters.
'Tere paas kitna hai?'The whisper was loud enough for my ear.
'ek rupaiya. dekh to woh sahi me charh nehi paya kya?'
the two little boys-just about the same age as my sons-were nervous that their friend who had the moneyfor the bus fare couldn't board the bus. It's natural. I can't even imagine my sons travelling in a bus all alone like this.
'main madad kar sakti hu?' the mother inside me prompted to utter the words.
'nehin, nehin auntie. thik hai.'
' mere paas kafi change hai, de du?'I offered again.
' nenin.' came the firm reply. 'jyada se jyada hum dono ko ek stop paidal jana parega, bas.'
My instinct said that I shouldn't hurt their feelings. I didn't want to assult their pride.Their self respect. But just the thought of these two small boys walking about a mile under the hot summer sun made me wanted to cry.
I gulped down my tears. Seeing them getting down made me happy and sad at the same time. Happy because they are the next generation--with the right amount of pride and self respect. Sad because my sons are not like them.
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