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....