Amritsar Calling: An ode to the unsung

Another good lady who did manage to reach her daughter, via a short Mexican beach isolation and onwards to California, sprung an even bigger surprise. She came back unrecognisable after seven months. She had shed off twenty-odd pounds you see. To all initial enquiries from shocked friends, and after some had gossiped about the crowfeet around the eyes and the sunken cheeks, yet marvelled at the offload, the answer was stonewalled with: “Nothing happened yaar, it was time to trim.” Soon the truth of an ‘ordeal’ of work, of washing dishes, of raking snow and dirt, cooking, cleaning toilets and tons of nappies started filtering out. Being a grand mum without the Asian help sure did what many a dietician, the high protein and the low carb routines were unable to do. It took her a fortnight to recover a foothold on our Bharati soil. And the excuses of being jet-lagged and just plain laziness certainly did not hold true. Kid me not babe.

Normally, one gets to hear only the cute baby tales with many a picture of little neonates, and all that they say or do or don’t do, since they are too young anyways. Understandably so. The millennial bearers of the newborns usually do not allow their own stark natural and obviously ‘healthy’ pics of motherhood or the all-night bleary-eyed looks of fatherhood to be Instagrammed. Also, there is this unwritten pact of talking about the enormously good things only and not the hunk load of chores that flow with the event. The newly-inducted nani or dadi for sure looks like she has been hit by a truck. The granddad has definitely tried to do his bit but has had his sleep after a few large eveningers with the son-in-law. The women, our saviours, have taken over because they know and do way better.

But the conversations return soon enough to the bounty of good help we get here. Ambarsaris have had it so good, and so very cheap, and for so long. You can literally take a pick off the nation. During our time as kids, the cooks would come primarily from Himachal, Nurpurias, Hamirpurias et al, but they do pretty well now back home with their fruit orchards and corner shops. Now they arrive primarily from the villages of Uttar Pradesh, the so-called plethora of jobs on offer, the development and MNREGA options available there notwithstanding. They used to be called Maharaj once, rassoia now. In fact, some houses just called them Ram, regardless of their real name. The ones that please us all with pakoras and mutton curries, daal makhannis and tandoori paranthas. Each has his own set of specialities and also adjusts his culinary tendencies to the preferences of the home that employs—chinni kamm and mirchi more, namak se kheech haath and thorah heeng to dal. The typical nips and cuts, adds and mores of cooking up the optimum taste. They know what satisfies these palates and satiates their souls.

And every household needs secondary help (uper ke kaam ke leyae chahiye, says the wife). I reminisce on the help we have had, and the quality of content and assistance they have provided to us for so little. The Nepali, Bahadur, as most of them were called, was as impeccable as a butler; cleaned, served, and looked after the dog too. He would share with me his ambitions, and eventually left for greener pastures. A friend had Murali, who actually ran the entire house singlehandedly and the garden too. Santosh was one from UP, who served us for years. I encouraged him to study as well. He did, even at night. Eventually, he returned to settle in his hometown and now is a proud father and a master denture maker to many a dentist across the state. So proud of him. Our current help Roshan is from Sultanpur. He has land back home and yet he works with us. Says it is just too much work tilling the land. In fact, each time they return from their holidays, they look like car wrecks and add the pounds and get back the relaxed look a week after their return. Shakal nikal ayee hai es di, my mom would say, as their health improved.

Roshan got married to this lass Anchal six months ago. He took a month off then but was quite miserable in her absence. I sometimes wonder at their lifestyle of absentia, in
comparison to our own. He took off for another month this winter and made lame excuses to extend it by another fortnight. The next time he returns to his village he will be a father, the process of procreation and the means to keep the mother and her daughter-in-law happy. Such is the thought and their life. I have been asking him to complete his study, become at least a graduate but he has no urge, for now.

The car washers are from Bihar, some even from Bangladesh pretending to be purbiaas till you hear them converse while they slosh the cars. One guy in a house nearby has a
gardener, who double times as a cleaner as well. I see him doing the cars, even hosing down, and swiping six feet onto the road in front of the house. Such is his dedication to the cause of cleanliness. He does errands and lives on the terrace, thus acts as the chowkidar too. There are many who would do many a chore if given a livelihood and space for their family to dwell.

Apart from this lot one observes on the dawn stroll, are our newspaper vendors. They make our day worthwhile, and even ensure that some of you do not get clogged bowels. Many friends claim that nature forgets its call to them unless they read the morning Express. I meet with Panditji, our friendly neighbourhood vendor, almost daily. He usually comes from behind quietly on his bicycle and wishes me a hearty Sat Sri Akaal. I marvel at his expertise as he rolls up the paper to a crisp, bends it just that mite to secure the folds and swings it onto someone’s driveway, into the balcony bang opposite, under the porch of the next one. Never does he miss, never does he deliver the wrong vernacular, nor does his paper ever get wet. The art of the vendor, his rhythm, and his memory sublime. And yet we find that this privilege is all but dead at most places abroad, with shop vending rather than delivery, and online reading to the fore.

Not to forget the quintessential ironing man dubbed the dhobi, who parks himself by the colony park and presses our clothes, even home delivers. And of course, the mochhi, the visiting cobbler. One who extends the life of our footwear beyond probability, to timelessness by global standards. The legacy of the tutti jutti, the broken sandal, perhaps adapted from this city. For every vocation, for every help, an attendant at call, a local mundu, the man Friday, just a gesture away to assist and satisfy for a humble fee.

And of course, the most essentials, the nannies. They are from all over, Bengalis and Odias, even Jharkhandis some. It’s a world of opportunity for them as they come tagging along each time an established Chanda returns from her holiday trip back home. The destinations for the greenhorns are already set, and the distribution amongst the
housewives is quick, over a hot cuppa of coffee at noon or a tête-à-tête in the evenings. The demand is high and the disbursement quick.

Incredibly easy is it not? Try getting a full-time nanny, even a Filipino maid or a chauffeur in Manhattan or in Vancouver for that matter. It will cost you an arm and a leg, perhaps even make you forsake your DINK yuppie lifetime and all savings up to date. Either all that or call the mum, even the mum-in-law, one that cribs little. As long as she does not upset your schedule, your way of life, does all that needs to be done, does some paranthas and gajerellas on the side as well. Definitely does the nappies and some night duties with the kiddo during those critical times. A little discomfort but much to gain.

So, should we sing an ode together to the unsung, and a special one perhaps to the helicopter nannies, our neo-age grannies on call? Or just celebrate the sheer luck of being in this here circumstance in this city. Maujaan ambarsarian diyaan!