This One’s for You Saroj

Why your maid is a wife you will never marry

Are there relationships more important than sex for a man? Just don’t ask one of those torch carrying femi-nazis running around – the whole men think about sex all the time spiel works for them. Plus, it’s not true – we don’t think about sex all the time, we just made an exception.

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But we do wish there were more of those ’60s bra-fire stoking types running around.

Anyway, it’s those exceptions (more pleasant ones than the run-ins with afore mentioned fire brands) that this section is devoted to. So we at FHM decided to bite the bullet, jump into the burning house and all that stuff to start something on things that we daresay are more important than sex (fine unless its a one nighter with a Victoria’s Secret model). That they do of course help us get some is of course an unorchestrated oversight.

This one’s for you Saroj. And all those other Sarojs out there who go by other names. It’s for all of those without whom we would never have clean underwear, a cup of tea, an ironed shirt for a date, a clean kitchen to cook for a chica or a made bed for you know what.

If you live in Bombay long enough, you’re bound to run into someone who grumbles – gosh! It’s easier to find a girl in Mumbai than a maid. And it’s true. You wouldn’t find a maid in Mumbai, if you do find a maid, once she figures out you don’t speak Marathi, the minute she steps in the door, she’d stop understanding all languages other than Marathi. She’d never have time to come and clean when you’re around – just because she likes the run of the house – and the key of course.

So, it’s easy to answer a question as to why Saroj was liked. The unquestioning, un-repulsed Saroj, might have needed some salary advances and some chuttis from time to time – but she’s on the list of unconditional loves of my life.

She might not have been a superwoman with the broom, but every morning I woke up I was glad to have her there. Yet somehow she was never acknowledged – not even when I left Bombay to move to Delhi, only to move back and then move right back. But the worst of course were the housekeeping maids of the erstwhile Sea Rock Hotel (it’s been bought over by it’s across the road neighbour – the Taj I hear). So one fine day I moved to Bombay for work of course. And thanks to a boss who’d scared the HR shitless, yours truly was told to stay at the Sea Rock hotel. And, it wasn’t shabby for a penniless journalist for whom grew up thinking making a hotel home would be a dream. That I didn’t find out that the office would be picking up the room service tab till long after though was tragic.

Anyway, I digress; the maids at Sea Rock had a rather peculiar way of working – you had time for two knocks, following which they counted till 10 and boom like clockwork you’d hear the lock turning and someone would stick their head in the door. That you were in the loo, in the shower, between the two didn’t seem to bother them.

True there were several times in the morning Saroj walked in and was scarred for life, she learnt to respect the knock. And somehow seeing a new head in the door way every day though somehow cheapened things a fair bit. With Saroj this never existed.

Then of course there was the little matter of my Stolen sim card which was used to make calls amounting to Rs 17,000. Saroj never stole from us. Never.

You thought we had some sort of strange crush on our maid didn’t you? Tsk tsk. There’s even a facebook page called, “I love my maid”. That the girl you find bending suggestively towards you, her palms on her knees, dressed a British country maid looks nothing close to Saroj is another matter.

And sorry Saroj for what all you had to endure in No 502 Dheeraj Gaurav Heights in Lokhandwala; you’d be happy to know, I’ve started locking the door and gotten over my au natural phase.

As for the mess in the kitchen – it was Diya’s fault

From the August 2010 issue of FHM India.