The worst thing about being a maid is not the dirty plates, or the spilled gravy, or even the occasionally broken glass pieces. The worst is being in a room, trying to wash, clean, or clear, while a husband and wife all but murder each other around you.
God knows that I’ve had my share of quarrels with my man, so the least I expect from my employers is a peaceful work environment. But I’ve never had a week when some or the other employer couple didn’t lunge at each other’s throats.
And for what? Stupid, stupid, stupid things. Like forgetting to buy milk, not putting away worn clothes, or the best one of all, forgetting whose turn it was to pick up the kid. These are the people I have to work for, people whose problems are unceasingly more pathetic than mine.
And that’s why I always know when the old couple has a court date coming.
See, these two are old-timey people. They don’t talk much, not to me or to each other. Their life is steadfastly at the stage when old folks are neither to be seen nor heard. That’s what they think, not me. I’ve never known them to laugh loudly at a joke, turn the volume on the TV more than a quarter of the way. Never hosted parties, I mean get-togethers (they don’t say party after a certain age), gone to the movies, or even quarrelled. I mean they take their solitude seriously. If they ever oiled their ceiling fans I’d probably think I’ve gone deaf.
Once every three or four months, however, they start moving and they start talking, and there’s some emotion in the air. That’s when I know they are preparing for court. Court, the one thing I hope everyone avoids in their lives.
You see, they are fighting a case that decides what happens to this house after they’re dead and gone. No children, or as the documents put it whimsically, no issues. LOL!
“LOL?” You must be wondering which maid speaks like that. Why, so inauthentic this voice is. Misrepresenting the blue-collared sari-wearing superhero of the slums, aren’t we. Well, why can’t I speak like this? How many maids have you spoken to? I’m the kind that says LOL.
So, anyway, the husband and wife made a decision long before I came to work for them, that they’ll leave this house to an animal welfare organisation. Bless their hearts to think of something like that. I mean I like cats myself, but shoot me if I ever think of leaving a house to them.
There’s a saying, that no kind act goes unpunished. Especially not in a city that ran out of space half-a-century ago. Here you need to shelter people first and foremost. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not the needy people we are talking about sheltering here. Not the ones outside in the rain, or next to the drain. Shelter for the people who can spend more money on fifteen hundred square feet than what the entire damn island was worth in dowry some three hundred and fifty years ago. They are the really deprived ones here. The ones out in the street can just go stand in the shadow from the high-rises a little further away.
This house here, the one I was cleaning before you got me started on this story, is simply a dump. It’s seventy years old. Wait, the old man must be well over seventy and he was born here. So, whatever; eighty or ninety. I mean dust is dust, and there a lot of it here. It’s probably supported more by dust and cobwebs now than walls. Thank you, spiders.
Yet, even this dump is gold, because it’s a fair amount of land in a fair part of town. Back when it was built this was jackal-infested farmland, but now it’s much happening, much wow-cool. The land aged very well. The house and residents, not so much.
You can probably see where this is going. As soon as word got out that the senile old fools were planning on just giving their house away, oh boy! So much concern people started showing. Nieces and nephews, themselves tottering oldies now, began trying to ingratiate themselves, and along the way also teach the two of them a few lessons on family and legacy.
How do I know all this? Maids talk. I mean, we do listen to people speak, whether we want to or not. Our earlobes don’t magically fold themselves into the ear canals just to protect your privacy, or our sanity. So, their maid told their maid, who told their maid, who told your maid, who told this maid.
And you know who else talks? Real estate agents. They talk, and hover, and swoop, and peck. They started landing up, all kind-hearted and concerned. “Oh ho ho ho, uncle. Oh re re re, aunt. You have earned your rest. You shouldn’t be worrying about the upkeep of such an old house. We’ll build you a new flat, modern kitchen, glass bay windows, fengshui and vaastu, with a view of the sea. You just relax, play with the grandkids, not yours but anyone else’s. Life’s good, you’ll see.”
Well, I wish someone offered me something like that. First thing I’d do is throw my husband into the sea and watch him drown from the glass bay windows. Everything else after that.
These offers didn’t make ho-ho uncle or re-re aunt happy at all. What the hell would they do with a view of the sea when the cataracts were filtering out all light anyway. They wanted to leave it to the animal thing. Animals were cute and friendly, kind-hearted. They deserved better, like a posh wow-cool address. They had favourite childhood pets, both of them. They watched animal shows on the TV, and had calendars with pictures of strays. They put out seeds and water for birds and squirrels. Legacy means different things to different people.
But, the clamour for the future of the house grew louder, till it seemed almost certain that the home would not go to the animals, but these beasts instead. How depressed they must have been, though how could you possibly tell? It’s not like they had a spring in their walk before that. Or did they? You never know.
I probably started here during this time. Uneasy days. I often found the man staring out the window, himself concealed carefully so as not to be seen. He would stare at anyone who lingered around their house, fearful that they were real-estate thugs, or spies hired by the nieces and nephews. They weren’t wrong, I knew a few of the scoundrels, rather I knew their wives. But, mostly they were just delivery boys or cable-TV installers. But, once the bug of suspicion has taken over, you’re just a slave.
The wife had her own tic. If they ever left home, both of them, she would check and double-check whether the door was locked. She’d push it, pull it, tug at the lock, and turn back at least once before finally leaving. Now, one doesn’t just return to find your home taken over by thugs, not so plainly. But, when your body starts losing its strength, can the mind be far behind. Especially if you are one like them, who never believed in dominating over others. If ‘live and let live, I’m so humble’ is your policy, then you should know you’ll be among the first to get squished underfoot.
This brings us back to the court case. When the couple went to an equally old lawyer to get their will and testament stamped and registered, lo and behold, the relatives found out. What a shocker! They quickly went to their younger lawyer and filed something called an injunction to stop them. Let me tell you, if you thought injections were painful, wait till someone files an injunction against you.
They claimed that the house should rightfully come to them because they were legal heirs, and the old couple had no locus standi to disinherit them. Inherito ergo sum, I think was what their tactic was, or the other way around. Don’t ask me the correct Latin. I’m just a maid, after all.
That was a full four years ago. And in these full four years there have been, perhaps, sixteen court dates. I’m taking roughly one per quarter. How many have my employers attended? Sixteen. How many have the family values team attended? Zero. They just send the lawyer. It’s obvious what they are counting on. That the older ones will die, and the younger ones will become newly re-inherited. Of course, they aren’t aware of the fact that my folks drink carrot juice every morning, while they probably put butter in their coffee.
Healthy habits apart, I really want my folks to win. They’re my folks after all. I’ve worked in enough houses to have a feeling for what kind of people need to populate the world with their offspring. Very often it’s those very couples that are childless. Go figure. But, just leave the nice ones alone. Why should that be asking for too much?
The only nice thing to come out of this is that every time there’s a court date (and there will be many more to come), it’s nice to see the couple get together and prepare for the fight.
“Tell me the argument one more time,” says one.
“Bring me the affidavits first,” replies the other.
“Remind the judge that it’s been four years.”
“That’ll just get him cheesed off at us for trying to teach him his job.”
“It’s an innocent question.”
“Guilty until proven innocent.”
“Why do I even try?”
“Why do I?”
And so on and so forth. You might have decided which is the wife and which is the husband speaking. What does that say about you?
It’s nice to see that they have each other’s back. It’s the only time they metaphorically hold hands and comfort each other. They break the silence that is otherwise the unwanted child of the relationship. It gives me hope that maybe sometimes good people win. Then maybe I may also be rewarded for everything I put up with. Don’t get me started.
A home is not inherited. A home is not located on a prime plot of land. I know better than most that home is actually something you tie in the loose end of your sari and carry with you each time your house is broken down, each time your family threatens to abandon you. You carry it for yourself and your loved ones. And if your loved ones have tails, who are we to injunct?
I want them to win the case. But, I also don’t want their court dates to stop.