I was on the lookout for a person who could help me with the cooking. I was getting nowhere with my search, when my mother-in- law came up with an idea. “I’ll ask Meena. Her husband belongs to my village. The family is known; hence there’ll be no risk of hiring an unknown person.”
‘M’, as I will call her, was a formidable lady, with regard to both appearance and character. But her abilities in the culinary area were unknown and untested. Since I was having guests and could do with some help, I thought, “why not try her out?” “Not a paisa less than 8,000,” she stated her terms. “You have a need. I cannot come for less”. “Shrewd bargainer,” I thought.
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In this manner, ‘M’ came on board heralding the start of a tumultuous innings. “For me, cooking for ten people or two people is just a matter of less than one hour,” she would say airily. Well may she claim because the kitchen resembled a battlefield, with spattering of oily garnish, cooked dal, vegetable peels, tamarind waste: grimy remnants of a grubby job. l pointed this out to her. “Madam, you did not mention that I had to clean up post-cooking,” was the rejoinder. “Anyway since you are particular, give me a mop.” She perfunctorily wiped the counter-top and flung the mop into a corner. For M, cleaning up post-cooking was a matter of dragging with her feet, the rag over any floor spill and subsequently using the same cloth, without rinsing, to clean the counter-top.
More fun was in store. “I don’t work on Sundays. If you want me to come, please pay 200 rupees extra per Sunday,” she announced peremptorily. I shrugged haplessly, helpless in the manner of an insect caught in the coils of a predator. One morning, in the course of grinding idli batter, she said brightly, “Your grinder is worn out, needs to be replaced. It takes very long to grind the batter. Buy me a new one or manage with store-bought batter.” I had realised by now that in hiring M, I had bitten off more than I could chew.
Deepavali was round the corner. A month’s salary as Deepavali bonus, I was told. “Also, maami, please get me a silk cotton saree with a Kala Niketan border.”
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“But Meena, I’m not a corporate to afford such fabulous gifts,” I muttered feebly, timidly wondering what was in store if I refused to oblige.
“Ma’am,” M said darkly, “If I leave this job, l can get another like this.” She flicked her fingers.
I related my tale of woe to my husband. “Sack her,” was his advice. “She is charging by the hour like a lawyer or accountant and the work is shoddy, to say the least.”
l dithered, and a year went by with M calling the shots at every opportunity. Then as I handed her pay packet at the end of the month, she said carelessly, “I have completed one year on this job.I want a salary hike of 2000.” I was dumb-founded at the sheer audacity of the demand. “But Meena, this is surely preposterous,” was all I could manage to stutter. “Maami, it’s your choice. If you don’t give this raise, l’ll not continue working here,” she trailed off.
This time I turned to my friend Sheela for advice. But she was quite unfeeling and unsympathetic. “Your cook is a born deal-maker,” she said. “Watch out. In line with pay commissions, she’s going to demand arrears with retrospective effect”, she sniggered. I didn’t find it funny. But my mind was in turmoil. The time had come to take the bull by the horns.
I rose in the morning, a different person. A new strength and a conviction of purpose possessed me as I proceeded to open the door to let the cook in. “Welcome Maami,” I said in my sweetest manner, “to your last day at work.”
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