One thing I will never get used to with living in many Eastern countries is how normal it is for everyone to have a maid.
I remember being in Cairo and in following my 10 year habit of struggling out of bed and into the shower, I would return to a room that was ostensibly never slept in. Half dazed from lingering sleep, I managed to feel caught off guard every morning. The novels that I would fall asleep in every night would be closed, and my page lost. I think I have read half of the pages of Anna Karenina twice.
I always felt guilty having someone clean up after me. Especially making my bed-- a habit that I never got into. [What is the point of losing moments of sleep to tidy something that will be in a mess again within 30 seconds of the next time you see it?]
Every morning when I leave my flat I am to give my key to my landlord’s maid, so that she can clean while I am out. I used to not bother, but the maids kept asking me about it. With language barriers I couldn’t explain that my place doesn’t get very messy, and I don’t mind cleaning it up. Perhaps this would be strange even if I could explain it in Hindi. Even those who are relatively poor have maids.
I have been told quite often that there is a job for everything here. I was at a friend’s place last night and at 10 p.m. a man rang the door bell to deliver freshly ironed clothes. Another time when I went over to a friend’s place to meet him, he told me the place was a mess because it was getting painted. It felt natural to me to offer to help.
“Sweetheart, you’re in India. Someone else is going to do it.”
In the morning when I am to drop off the key to my flat, the maids give me a cup of hot chai to chase that same lingering sleep away. If they’re not to busy, I like to try to get to know them, and play with Arnov—the cutest baby in the world.
We stand around the kitchen and a five minute conversation takes us an hour of miming, laughter and confusion.
“You married?”
“No”
“Why no? You want [points at baby]?
I laugh and get awkward.
The other maid mimes that she wants me to have a baby, so that she can come with me to Canada and be the nanny. She is an adorable, vivacious, little woman, and I almost consider it.
After much struggling, the maid who speaks a few words of English, Letha, tells me that the other maid, Sundeja, has two sons and no husband.
“No papa. Drama.”
Sundeja was clearly a little uncomfortable, and I could sympathize. With effort, I explain to her that I don’t have a father either, and know how it must be for her sons. I received the strangest response of my life to someone finding out that I don’t have a father.
“You no papa!” she beamed, excited for something that we had in common. I laughed.
They tell me, miming and laughing, that they will teach me how to cook, but they probably do not know that I will hold them to it.Hopefully I don’t return to Canada being as useless in the kitchen as when I left.
I remember being in Cairo and in following my 10 year habit of struggling out of bed and into the shower, I would return to a room that was ostensibly never slept in. Half dazed from lingering sleep, I managed to feel caught off guard every morning. The novels that I would fall asleep in every night would be closed, and my page lost. I think I have read half of the pages of Anna Karenina twice.
I always felt guilty having someone clean up after me. Especially making my bed-- a habit that I never got into. [What is the point of losing moments of sleep to tidy something that will be in a mess again within 30 seconds of the next time you see it?]
Every morning when I leave my flat I am to give my key to my landlord’s maid, so that she can clean while I am out. I used to not bother, but the maids kept asking me about it. With language barriers I couldn’t explain that my place doesn’t get very messy, and I don’t mind cleaning it up. Perhaps this would be strange even if I could explain it in Hindi. Even those who are relatively poor have maids.
I have been told quite often that there is a job for everything here. I was at a friend’s place last night and at 10 p.m. a man rang the door bell to deliver freshly ironed clothes. Another time when I went over to a friend’s place to meet him, he told me the place was a mess because it was getting painted. It felt natural to me to offer to help.
“Sweetheart, you’re in India. Someone else is going to do it.”
In the morning when I am to drop off the key to my flat, the maids give me a cup of hot chai to chase that same lingering sleep away. If they’re not to busy, I like to try to get to know them, and play with Arnov—the cutest baby in the world.
We stand around the kitchen and a five minute conversation takes us an hour of miming, laughter and confusion.
“You married?”
“No”
“Why no? You want [points at baby]?
I laugh and get awkward.
The other maid mimes that she wants me to have a baby, so that she can come with me to Canada and be the nanny. She is an adorable, vivacious, little woman, and I almost consider it.
After much struggling, the maid who speaks a few words of English, Letha, tells me that the other maid, Sundeja, has two sons and no husband.
“No papa. Drama.”
Sundeja was clearly a little uncomfortable, and I could sympathize. With effort, I explain to her that I don’t have a father either, and know how it must be for her sons. I received the strangest response of my life to someone finding out that I don’t have a father.
“You no papa!” she beamed, excited for something that we had in common. I laughed.
They tell me, miming and laughing, that they will teach me how to cook, but they probably do not know that I will hold them to it.Hopefully I don’t return to Canada being as useless in the kitchen as when I left.
Rudayna, these are a joy to read. You turn a phrase like no one else. I love how you capture these moments. And, you know, I love you too.
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