Unsung everyday heroes

Sharp 6 am: Yes, I wait for him, the milkman! Actually, he is a boy, all of maybe 16 or 17 years old. Whether it is in the biting cold or on a wet monsoon day, he is there. I can8217;t do without him, otherwise how will I wake up my children, who are as old as him, with a piping hot cup of tea? How come the mother8217;s heart in me does not tug at this teenager who gets cracking at the crack of dawn to make two ends meet? Iclose the door so quickly, that he still remains a stranger. I don8217;t even know his name!

7.30 am: The newspaper boy, of course! I finish my kitchen work before this much-sought-after doorbell, so that I can browse through the dailies to stay in touch not so much with the times, as much as with my journalistic work.

The boy must be around 14 years of age. And he is afraid of me. If he is late, I give him a piece of my mind. He quietly listens and promises to deliver on time the next day. I never think that he needs appreciation if he does a punctual job. Why? Is a reprimand the only thing he deserves?

10.30 am: It has to be Kundabai, our maid. Leaving behind her everyday misery and drudgery of an alcoholic husband who beats her up so often and little children to whom she may not be able to provide the next meal, she gets set with her work. Sweeping, swabbing, washing utensils and clothes 8212; all with utmost efficiency and without complaint. Fatigue is absent in her dictionary, although she toils at fourhomes and then toils again when she gets back to her own home. Sometimes I pamper myself if I have stretched myself too much at work, because one needs to let one8217;s hair down off and on, they say, but what about Kundabai? Doesn8217;t she too deserve rest?

1 pm: Thank God, it is the kachrawali. What would we do without her services! She doesn8217;t even sneer at the stench of the kitchen garbage and most sincerely overturns it into her cartwheel. Then, with the help of waste paper, wipes our bin clean. No nakhras about how dirty the bin is or how heavy it is. Her one day8217;s absence is terribly felt, because it means extra pains to empty the garbage ourselves into a container and dump it into the public bin outside our society! What an agony!

Wednesdays and Sundays: the dhobiwala! Hail this guy, who makes you look smart, more than a dress designer perhaps. Because you may have the best designed clothes, but it is in the ironing that they acquire that chic touch. Imagine wearing cool cottonswithout the pressure of his heavy iron, you8217;d look shabby. But each time he comes, he is eyed with suspicion 8212; has he brought the exact number of clothes? Has he torn any? Lost any?

Then there8217;s the car washing fellow, the sabziwali who comes in at the appropriate time when I want that handful of coriander leaves, the society plumber who promptly repairs leaking taps and the electrician who eagerly spring cleans our fans. No awards are bestowed on these innumerable men and women who work, with a smile and without expectations of reward or appreciation.

For ourselves, we believe we are quot;born luckyquot; to live in cushy surroundings. Hardly realising how much we need to lean on so many faceless people, who actually help charter our upward course in attaining status symbols in society. And yet, we taken them for granted, as if they were born only to relentlessly serve us, the self-styled saabs and memsaabs. What injustice!