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Maid in India

Made in India, made in India- a song crooned by Alisha Chinoy in 1996 made her a household name in India- the object of her approbation in the song. If the song were to be renamed and re-written today, the best possible name would be ‘Maid in India’. When the various peccadilloes of neighborhood have been discussed to death with exaggerated gestures and rolling eyes on the part of the narrator and popping eyes on the part of the listeners, the recent developments in the plethora of tear jerker T.V. serials are analyzed down to sheer bone with passionate empathy with the ‘poor’ victim and heartfelt ‘invitation of heaven’s wrath’ on the perpetrators of injustices on the idiot box, after which the comparatively better off neighbors’ recent material acquisitions are lampooned and criticized for exhibitionism and blatant showmanship and then comes the discussion which hits the nerve with every Indian woman- the fickle nature, the unreliability and the sheer thick-headedness of the Indian Maid, or shall we say ‘The Maid in India? Some classes of society are born with the ‘Cross’ of being the target of the most number of complaints, recipients of a large majority of curses and the target of brickbats from a large cross section of the community. Most of this criticism and scorned is heaped behind the back of the recipient because the vitriol heapers also realize that the object of their censure is also indispensable in one or the other sphere of their lives. Politicians, policemen, and of course the ubiquitous house maid have the dubious distinction of being the top three recipients of the most amount of censure-though not necessarily in the order given. 

The Indian Maid has the additional challenge of being the object of surgeon like dissection at the tongues of the excessively voluble gender of the human species- Fellow Women. A woman, any woman, whose ire a maid has had the misfortune of attracting, will not rest in peace (just a figure of speech) till she has informed the entire universe of her misdemeanors. After the neighborhood audience has been exhausted, the maid will be roundly castigated in front of the gardener, the washerman and the garbage collector with exhortations to find a better, more reliable maid. The harangue finally culminates after the poor husband comes back from work and gets to hear all the gory details in Technicolor. Even before the sod has reached for a cup of hot, steaming tea, the narrative, hich has assumed epic proportions by now is regurgitated on him. He pretends to listen, head bowed and eyes closed, seemingly deep in thought, all the while in reality meditating upon the beauty of a new female coworker. The volcano of self righteousness having finally run out of lava, the lady of the house pipes down to emitting just an occasional (g)rumble. After all, tomorrow is another day and you never know with volcanoes, even the extinct ones have been known to erupt!

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