Friday, July 7, 2017

Open the door, the Goddess is right outside


If you are a woman of reasonable means living in India, chances are you have seen God regardless of your caste, belief and pet prejudices.

For those of you unfortunate enough to be deprived of this divine viewing let me describe to you in detail what it feels like.

Like all good things in life this too doesn't come easily. In fact it is a lengthy process that entails a lot of suffering, uncertainty, anxiety that gnaws at your insides. It's a lot like when you have the misfortune of going to a government office to get a job done. By the end of the ordeal and no solution in sight, you wish you were born a lizard with no responsibilities other than flicking your tongue around for your next meal.

Tragically the longer the suffering is, the higher the probability is of the sighting. Your mood swings like a pendulum on testosterone. You alternate between anger at being betrayed and extreme melancholy. Women experience dehydration from frequent bouts of crying. It is likely to occur when you are on all your fours with a mop in hand, your hair greasy from sweat.

Wherever you go, whatever you do, all you will hear is sad strains of the violin. Nothing feels right anymore, not even your favourite TV series. Ed Sheeran’s ‘Shape of You’ playing for the zillionth time at club near you doesn’t annoy you anymore. You feel exhausted all the time mentally and physically and often end up reminiscing about achhe din which was your reality just a week back.

But no, the unevolved type you are, you refused to appreciate the gloriousness of the present when everything worked with clockwork precision and you actually had time to post photos of flowers, cute kittens and your dinner. Instead you chose to find faults with it. You cribbed about cups with tea-stains, the carpet that looked it hasn't been brushed for weeks.

You refused to appreciate your achhe din while you were living it.

Maybe you deserved this living hell. Perhaps you were asking for it by behaving inappropriately.

But with great distress comes greater introspection. As you are crouched over the sink cleaning the pile of dishes, you chide yourself for being ungrateful for comforts you took for granted.

You are often spotted near the window scanning the horizon for missing achhe din.

Mind you, there will come a time when you might feel tempted to cheat. Especially when the one you trusted so deeply has gone silent. Won't even pick up your calls, reply to your drunk texts, refuse to LOL on all the WA jokes you forward.

Perhaps it is time to move on. Should I start looking for a new acche din?

You give yourself a tight slap for being so impatient. Shutup, Purba, you tell yourself. You have invested so much in this relationship. Don’t give up. Not yet.

Thankfully you manage to assure yourself it is meant to last forever.

So you wait with Zen like patience. You meditate to keep your equilibrium intact. Soon you start experiencing detachment from discomforts you experience but only in spurts. The rest of the time you continue wallowing in misery and trying to unknot your stomach.

And then one day when you are on the cusp of attaining Nirvana and losing your sanity, the bell rings. You drag yourself to the door and open it and lo behold, you are greeted with the most beautiful sight. There she is glowing like a goddess, looking a little shamefaced for putting you through hard labour. Your body is trembling with unsaid emotions and your eyes well up with tears. It takes immense willpower from collapsing at her feet with relief. Before she can say, Didi, you close her mouth with your hands and whisper – bass kar pagli, rulayegee kya?

It’s been two days. Your eyes can’t stop following her like a puppy as she sweeps the floor. Once or twice when she has caught you staring, you immediately start looking intently at your phone and post a few lame jokes on Twitter. You are now making a mental note of buying her a new sari from Amazon.

Maybe I’ll give her something in peacock blue this time. It’ll suit her dusky complexion.

Better still, I’ll build a shrine for her in my heart. After all behind every carefree and footloose woman is her kamwali bai.




34 comments:

  1. Lol...Bas kar pagli kitna hasayegi.
    The bit about investing in relationship is so true. Doesn't let you change your cleaning partner.

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    1. Cleaning part is so apt. Why didn't i think of this!

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  2. Hehe...you had me at Goddess!
    Good tidings in the Ray household, despite whatever might be happening everywhere else because of GST!

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    1. The good thing about GST is people are no longer clicking pics of their meals.

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  3. Ha ha.... the oft repeated story of the domestic help, but with a dash of humor makes it a good read Purba!

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  4. Ha! And then people wonder why others are atheists! :P

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  5. Yes,like Alka,kitna hasayegi?Me doing khi khi all the way.

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  6. Bang on! It's always Bai-way or the Highway after all.

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    Replies
    1. All of us have been singed and learnt our lessons.

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  7. Aha.. the Bai Puran.. you seem to have a camera in our home?? the holiest of the holy scriptures...the peace in the family, the mood of the Mem Saheb all depends if she gets morning darshan of Bai Mata :P

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    1. The ringing of the doorbell and loud clanging of utensils is music most divine to the ears.

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  8. Yes, I reserve my best behaviour for her and put up with all her tantrums. I am her slave!

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  9. hahaha ohh the Bai problem :D sure they are Goddess in disguise :D Hilarious read :D

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  10. Does bai's hold so much value in a domestic life.... flabbergasted....there are countries they have no Bai culture...just my views not against it...but without it can be manageable...

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    1. I have a feeling you don't live in India. I have lived in Australia and managed perfectly on my own. The facilities, dust and grime free environment help.

      In India it's a different story altogether.

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  11. Also behind "every carefree and footloose stay-at-home men" too :D

    What surprises me often though is that we never felt the need for any sort of domestic help when we were in the UK, but in India - it's just impossible.

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    1. Life is very different there. The household chores are not as complicated and you can get away with once a week cleaning.

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  12. I survived a total of 33 days starting May 23rd. On the 34th day morning, I actually felt like I received a 'darshan' of the Divya Roop of the Mata. Goddess indeed! :-D

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    1. OMG! I hope you welcomed her back with aarti and garlands.

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  13. 'But with great distress comes greater introspection.' There are different processes to reach that point of enlightenment in life and it is a much more truer aphorism than the dicey quote from Spiderman. (Whoever said 'with great powers come great responsibility' had obviously not heard of Kim Jong-un or Mamta Banerjee(. The beauty of this post was the utter suspense you maintained till the very end of the whodunit thriller.

    Congratulations on that new badge of Top 100 Funny Blogs!

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    1. Uma, I never let myself forget I am as good as my last post.

      But thank you for noticing.

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  14. haha.. This was a really fun post to read :D Our society what's app group is all about 'Kaamwali' she certainly is nothing short of a goddess.

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    1. Just the sight of her every morning is enough to make my heart sing with joy.

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  15. Hold WAITtttt...


    HA HA HA HA HA H AHA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA ...


    right.. Now back.. loved the post.. thankfully in uk here I am the kaamwaali myself dont have to depend on her :)

    Bikram's

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  16. acche din..... depends on our mood.

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    1. My mood is totally dependent on my hired -helps showing up.

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  17. LOL. Funny are the effects of maid deprivation ! True, mild stains and aberrations do not matter when faced with lack of any support..hehe

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  18. No, dear, you aint a goddess.
    You're a mortal...
    doomed to croak.
    And dats d'fak, Jak.
    Not me.
    Im destined for Seventh-Heaven.
    Wanna wiseabove to be
    where Im going Upstairs?
    Find-out what RCIA means and join.
    trustNjesus.
    ALWAYS.
    God bless your indelible soul.

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