Just when I think I can live with the status quo, bam, everything changes~! Yes, you guessed it right, this is another Apprentice installment!
I've introduced you to spitfire Mary. We've managed a reasonable relationship over the two months--I stay out of the house while she is there. She cleans, thoroughly by her standards, reasonably well for mine. All is well in spite of the frequent "Madam, I don't like your (fill in the blank, rice, milk, etc...)" encounters which I've managed to avoid by just getting out of her way.
Bravely, and foolishly, I planned a luncheon party for three friends who are leaving Delhi in the summer. I kept the party down to a reasonable number, ten, the maximum my dining table can sit. I was prepared to do the marketing, cutting, chopping, cooking, table setting, flower arrangements. I was counting on a clean house and someone to wash the dishes when all was done. Though I knew it would be a lot to take on, I decided that we all are blessed abundantly in material ways that the only way to express my thanks and appreciation to these ladies was through this labor of love. And now, this!
Early Saturday morning, Sharma Sir took us on a shoot at the little lake outside the Purana Qila. From this angle, the fort was a majestic sight, it's red power rising high above us. Through Sharma Sir's eyes, we saw light and its enthralling effects on portraiture. How awesome to distill his art into a few simple concepts, concepts that make creativity and beauty soar in photography. In spite of the early morning hour, the sun was blazing. We broke off in groups trying to recreate and practice the few simple concepts he imparted to us.
I left David to instruct Mary to do two things: clean three windows and dust the sofa (yes, dust the sofa--only if you have lived in Delhi will you know why this is a must.) I was shocked to hear that Mary refused to do the three windows telling David that she had too much work and that it was not her job. When I got home, I once again asked her to clean the windows. Again, the reply was that there was too much work in my house, that it was not her job.
Alright. Mentally, I pushed my sleeves up ready for this encounter, ready to "get my hands dirty" to sort this all out.
Madam, there is too much work in this house. That is not my job, you need to get someone else to clean those windows.
Mary, you don't cook.
You don't wash.
You don't iron.
You ask me for transport money, I give it to you.
You ask me for uniforms, I give it to you.
You ask me for slippers, I give it to you.
You ask that you work 7 hours without a lunch break I give it to you (in spite of the fact that I know you take a lunch break).
You don't like my brown rice, I get you white rice.
You don't like my skimmed milk, I get you your Mother Dairy milk.
Though we don't keep bread at home, I get you your bread for your snack.
I did not have to do any of those things, it is not my job.
I ask you to clean three windows and it is not your job?
Madam, there is too much work. I clean the kitchen everyday, it takes four hours.
Four hours! How can the kitchen take four hours?
The exchange continued, her voice escalating. Madam, everyday you complain. You tell me this not clean, you see this, you complain. Everyday complain, complain.
Mary, the other day, I told you that you threw my new contact lenses out. This cost me R600!
Yes Madam, that was my mistake.
I pulled out the dryer and bins from the laundry room and showed you all the dust and dirt that had accumulated there. You have never swept there!
Madam, that is my mistake, that is my job.
Today, I told you the sofa was incredibly dusty, dust accumulated not over a day or a week but over months! Yes madam, that is my job, that is my mistake.
Madam, for 25 years I work for British, they not complain. Everyday you complain, complain, complain. If you not like I work here, I go.
What unmitigated insolence!
I left her to her work and enlisted David and Ambrose to help me clean the three windows in the dining room. We got the job done and my ladies can now enjoy the park view over lunch.
Here is my question to you. If Mary works seven hours today, and seven hours everyday, how is there too much work? Seven hours work is seven hours work. At the interview, she said she would do whatever work needed to be done. Ah yes, the courtship stage, promises, promises! And at what particular point does a reminder become a complaint? And what is the best approach to all this? Should I breathe down her neck about every little thing so that she gets used to my presence (as I have been strongly advised to do) or should I stay out of her way and have as little contact as possible and have my every comment taken badly? Where does the balance lie? I have not been able to understand the psyche of the Indian domestic helper this after having lived with help for practically all of my life.
I mulled over keeping her or firing her. David advised me strongly that I should fire her immediately. He added, "I have 2,000 people working for me. I know." And of course he was right. True to form, he added, "but you are coming close to 2,000 too." Oh yes, nothing like a little acerbic wit to diffuse a situation. And you know what? Our stint in India might just come to that--2,000 helpers in 3 years is starting to look like a possibility.
We calculated her pay, paid her over and above that (though I really wanted my money back for the slippers and uniforms) and sent her on her way. In parting, I said, "Mary, I am sorry this did not work out." She picked up her sandals, walked out, slammed the door with nary a murmur of thanks. Unmitigated insolence!
As Ambrose holds the Apprentice of the Year title, Raju's claim to fame, among other things is being an excellent maid pimp. Pardon the crudeness, but truly, if you were witness to our household goings on, you too would agree. The last go round, he sent me elderly ladies who could barely walk, a young girl with painted face and purple nails and all sorts and sizes in between! This afternoon, barely 48 hours after Mary's departure and two hours after we put Raju to task he has brought me Rosie, his brother's sister-in-law!
Rosie is a young girl with a smiling face to camouflage her lack of English. I have her in my kitchen now and I have decided to test her mettle. I've warned her that I want someone who wants to work hard. I believe I got that point across. Everything remains to be seen.
I try and remind myself constantly that life is too short to spend even one moment in frustration and anger. So I've decided to roll with the punches, Rosie cleans while I blog. Tomorrow is another day and I will be ready for the delights or debacles to come.
Domestic disasters continue to haunt me. I have not managed to conquer that chapter of my Indian experience. But this much I know, this much I have manged. Mary bites the dust but I now have wonderful and true friends who have come to my rescue. As angels from heaven they have volunteered to come and help me cook and get ready for tomorrow's luncheon party. That is an achievement.
Sunday, April 27, 2008
Thursday, April 3, 2008
Whose Job is it Anyway? (Sidebar to The Apprentice)
If you have never lived in India, what I am about to tell you might amuse or exasperate you depending on your position on this matter. When you are done reading, you might choose to guffaw at my bafflement or throw your hands up in exasperation as you understand exactly what I mean.
A quick Apprentice update: After my three week search, I found Mary, a spunky little south Indian lady. Though I am almost a full head taller than her, she breathes fire and I can almost see smoke emanate from her nostrils when something does not quite go her way. At interview time, she promised that she would do whatever needed to be done, whenever it needed doing. True, she asked for an eight-hour day (which I vaguely agreed to), uniforms (which I agreed to), lunch (which I vaguely agreed to as well) and right then, I should have had a clue as to the spitfire in this little package. I realized the challenge in finding a reliable English speaking housekeeper so I cut my losses and decided to hire Mary.
Mary planned to move into our servants quarters that weekend. Come Saturday, she announced that her husband needed three months to find suitable quarters in Bangalore and that she would have to commute during that time.
"Madam, you give me transportation money?" Honestly, I am unsure whether that sentence ended with a period or a question mark as it was spoken in true spitfire fashion! I replied that I would think about it and get back to her. I discussed this with David who wisely advised that it was unreasonable to ask for transportation money since the quarters were available for her. Putting this in perspective, we are talking about $20. Is it worth worrying about $20 for three months? Weigh $60 against the possibility of having to start the search all over again. Your answer? Eight-hour day, uniforms, lunch, and now transportation money.
Score:
Mary 4
Me, zilch!
Mary spent no time at all settling down into her new position: head housekeeper, boss of all household underlings. Mr Lal, the dhobi always goes about his work quietly, his only demands being hot tea a few times a day and some bread and butter for snack. I suspect wise old Mr. Lal was secretly overjoyed that he now had someone to make his tea and wash his cup. He was in dhobi heaven!
"Madam, I don't like this milk. I cannot drink your milk." David and I prefer skimmed milk while Mary prefers Mother Dairy full-of-fat milk! If I really wanted to even out our score, I could have scolded her and told her off. But no! Alright, Mother Dairy milk coming up!
Mary 5
Me, still zilch!
The next day, I traced more smoke coming from Mary's nostrils. Why? "Madam, I cannot eat brown rice. I do not like your rice." To avoid being a total pushover, I told her that she had to eat brown rice until I found the time to get her some white rice. I delayed giving this matter any attention at all. That should show her who's boss! I stretched it out for a week!
Mary 5
Me 1
"Madam, I need slippers. Please find me a pair of small slippers." I wear a size 38 while she a 35. The possibility of finding small slippers around our house was nil. So, I promised her I would buy her a pair of slippers. Two weeks later, she is still barefoot around the house.
Mary 4
Me 3 (that coup deserves 2 points at least)
At about the same time I hired Mary, I hired a mali to take care of our garden. Ambrose was my broker and he conveyed the scope of the work to be done. As much as possible, I like to buffer myself from these goings-on. Besides that, Ambrose can speak Hindi ever so much better than I can (my entire Hindi vocabulary consists of a mere 15 words at most and none of them garden related!). I put Mary in charge of the mali, the mali-police so to speak. Mary got the mali to come at 2:00 p. m. instead of his usual 5:00 p.m. because it interfered with her departure time. I didn't care much either way. I only cared that I didn't have to be around to escort the mali around the garden and up to the second floor balcony.
Mary 5
Me 3
Mali zilch!
To get to our front door, you have to go through our gate and up a flight of stairs. I asked Mary to keep the area clean. "Madam, that is the mali's job." Alright then, get the mali to do it. I told her in no uncertain terms that I did not care who did it, just that it got done. Get the mali to do it or get it done yourself. Ha! I smell a victory! Mary now walks out with a broom Monday, Wednesday and Friday. YES!
Mary 5
Me 4 (I share this victory with the mali.)
Mali 1
Our front steps are now relatively clean courtesy of Mary. I also asked that the area immediately outside the gate be cleared of all debris and trash that blows over from the surrounding area. Done, courtesy of the mali. Stairs, check. Outside gate, check. Wait a minute! Why is that gate dusty? Why is the marble that lines the 15-foot wall along the walkway filthy?
I asked Mary once again to take care of the "dusty 15 (feet)." Madam, it is the mali's job." I replied that she therefore needed to get him to do it. The next day, she announced that it is the sweeper's job. The sweeper? Let me try and understand this. We have a housekeeper who cleans the steps, a mali who cleans outside the gate but we need a sweeper to clean the dirty 15? I asked Ambrose his take on the situation. "Yes, Madam, you can hire a sweeper to clean the walkway."
This is the puzzle. It takes all of two minutes to clean the area. Ambrose sits outside waiting for me for hours on end when I am home. He points a finger at the mali or the housekeeper or the sweeper but he does not take it upon himself to run a rag along the area. His Apprentice of the Year title is in serious jeopardy! The mali and housekeeper want nothing to do with it. If we hired a sweeper to clean the dirty 15, our household of two will have a staff of 6! The minutiae of our lives in India is unbelievable. Are jobs so specialized? Does a population of 1.2 billion people mandate that each job be limited in scope? How much pride is involved? Is it pride or is it laziness in disguise? Is this a tried and tested system that I should not mess with? As they like to say in India,
You tell me.
Whose job is it anyway?
The score stands but the battle continues....
A quick Apprentice update: After my three week search, I found Mary, a spunky little south Indian lady. Though I am almost a full head taller than her, she breathes fire and I can almost see smoke emanate from her nostrils when something does not quite go her way. At interview time, she promised that she would do whatever needed to be done, whenever it needed doing. True, she asked for an eight-hour day (which I vaguely agreed to), uniforms (which I agreed to), lunch (which I vaguely agreed to as well) and right then, I should have had a clue as to the spitfire in this little package. I realized the challenge in finding a reliable English speaking housekeeper so I cut my losses and decided to hire Mary.
Mary planned to move into our servants quarters that weekend. Come Saturday, she announced that her husband needed three months to find suitable quarters in Bangalore and that she would have to commute during that time.
"Madam, you give me transportation money?" Honestly, I am unsure whether that sentence ended with a period or a question mark as it was spoken in true spitfire fashion! I replied that I would think about it and get back to her. I discussed this with David who wisely advised that it was unreasonable to ask for transportation money since the quarters were available for her. Putting this in perspective, we are talking about $20. Is it worth worrying about $20 for three months? Weigh $60 against the possibility of having to start the search all over again. Your answer? Eight-hour day, uniforms, lunch, and now transportation money.
Score:
Mary 4
Me, zilch!
Mary spent no time at all settling down into her new position: head housekeeper, boss of all household underlings. Mr Lal, the dhobi always goes about his work quietly, his only demands being hot tea a few times a day and some bread and butter for snack. I suspect wise old Mr. Lal was secretly overjoyed that he now had someone to make his tea and wash his cup. He was in dhobi heaven!
"Madam, I don't like this milk. I cannot drink your milk." David and I prefer skimmed milk while Mary prefers Mother Dairy full-of-fat milk! If I really wanted to even out our score, I could have scolded her and told her off. But no! Alright, Mother Dairy milk coming up!
Mary 5
Me, still zilch!
The next day, I traced more smoke coming from Mary's nostrils. Why? "Madam, I cannot eat brown rice. I do not like your rice." To avoid being a total pushover, I told her that she had to eat brown rice until I found the time to get her some white rice. I delayed giving this matter any attention at all. That should show her who's boss! I stretched it out for a week!
Mary 5
Me 1
"Madam, I need slippers. Please find me a pair of small slippers." I wear a size 38 while she a 35. The possibility of finding small slippers around our house was nil. So, I promised her I would buy her a pair of slippers. Two weeks later, she is still barefoot around the house.
Mary 4
Me 3 (that coup deserves 2 points at least)
At about the same time I hired Mary, I hired a mali to take care of our garden. Ambrose was my broker and he conveyed the scope of the work to be done. As much as possible, I like to buffer myself from these goings-on. Besides that, Ambrose can speak Hindi ever so much better than I can (my entire Hindi vocabulary consists of a mere 15 words at most and none of them garden related!). I put Mary in charge of the mali, the mali-police so to speak. Mary got the mali to come at 2:00 p. m. instead of his usual 5:00 p.m. because it interfered with her departure time. I didn't care much either way. I only cared that I didn't have to be around to escort the mali around the garden and up to the second floor balcony.
Mary 5
Me 3
Mali zilch!
To get to our front door, you have to go through our gate and up a flight of stairs. I asked Mary to keep the area clean. "Madam, that is the mali's job." Alright then, get the mali to do it. I told her in no uncertain terms that I did not care who did it, just that it got done. Get the mali to do it or get it done yourself. Ha! I smell a victory! Mary now walks out with a broom Monday, Wednesday and Friday. YES!
Mary 5
Me 4 (I share this victory with the mali.)
Mali 1
Our front steps are now relatively clean courtesy of Mary. I also asked that the area immediately outside the gate be cleared of all debris and trash that blows over from the surrounding area. Done, courtesy of the mali. Stairs, check. Outside gate, check. Wait a minute! Why is that gate dusty? Why is the marble that lines the 15-foot wall along the walkway filthy?
I asked Mary once again to take care of the "dusty 15 (feet)." Madam, it is the mali's job." I replied that she therefore needed to get him to do it. The next day, she announced that it is the sweeper's job. The sweeper? Let me try and understand this. We have a housekeeper who cleans the steps, a mali who cleans outside the gate but we need a sweeper to clean the dirty 15? I asked Ambrose his take on the situation. "Yes, Madam, you can hire a sweeper to clean the walkway."
This is the puzzle. It takes all of two minutes to clean the area. Ambrose sits outside waiting for me for hours on end when I am home. He points a finger at the mali or the housekeeper or the sweeper but he does not take it upon himself to run a rag along the area. His Apprentice of the Year title is in serious jeopardy! The mali and housekeeper want nothing to do with it. If we hired a sweeper to clean the dirty 15, our household of two will have a staff of 6! The minutiae of our lives in India is unbelievable. Are jobs so specialized? Does a population of 1.2 billion people mandate that each job be limited in scope? How much pride is involved? Is it pride or is it laziness in disguise? Is this a tried and tested system that I should not mess with? As they like to say in India,
You tell me.
Whose job is it anyway?
The score stands but the battle continues....
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