Beach House Birthday and Other Stories Read online

  My professional life had started to revolve around Haribhau. I spent more time with him than with Nitin! What would I have done without Haribhau? Good man. Loyal and silent. We hardly spoke - there was really no need for any conversation. I was always handling calls while travelling to my clinic. And I preferred it this way. Our only ‘connection’ took place when our eyes met in the rear view mirror, while I instructed him. Even the car keys were handed over to Haribhau every morning by our house help.

  When Haribhau came down with a mild fever, I had no choice but to send him to the nearest testing centre, where he had to queue up for five hours before someone attended to him. And that was after I made a few calls to the local MLA whose wife was my patient. I told him to phone and inform his wife and mother. Frankly, it was their responsibility. Nitin was shocked when we were asked to pay five thousand rupees for the test. He told me his golfing friend mentioned that he had paid over a lakh and a half to have his daughter’s maid treated at one of those new facilities. Nitin made it very clear he would not cough up in case Haribhau tested positive.

  I admit, at this stage I was only thinking of myself. Not Haribhau or his family members. I was being selfish! Call me heartless, I don’t care. If Haribhau tested positive, I’d be stuck in every which way! I would also have to self-quarantine. All the people I had interacted with would be traced and tested - I would be shunned. My neighbours would start hating me and those Municipal men would turn up to seal our building, put up that ugly, big sign! We would be held responsible for causing this problem, as if we had personally unleashed Corona. As if we had done it deliberately. All because of Haribhau and his carelessness. He must have picked it up from one of the other drivers, even though I had explained the dangers of relaxing too much with those men in the basement. Even if he did survive - I am being brutally honest - Nitin and I would not be able to keep him.

  My mind was already working on replacing Haribhau once the lockdown lifted. Good drivers were really tough to find in our city. Of course, Nitin and I would pay him a little extra and all that. And I would give his pregnant wife (Haribhau had told me his wife was pregnant on the day that he went for the Covid test) all the free tonics and samples and vitamins lying with me. But the question of keeping him did not arise. Sorry. But we have to be practical and think of ourselves also. Times are really bad.

  NO CHICKEN PLEASE

  Deva! Deva! Madamji is asking for chicken again! I don’t know what to tell her. Madamji knows this is a strictly vegetarian home. We are poor people. Even if she pays for the chicken it cannot be brought inside our house. Where will she eat that chicken? Sitting on the footpath outside? We are very strict with our khaana peena. I don’t even eat lasoon! Forget chicken-wicken. Yes, Baba. I am a devout follower of my Devi. I took a vow not to touch meat, eggs, chicken when I became her devotee after my children started falling ill one by one. Deviji also asked me to give up one more daily use food item I enjoyed eating. And I chose lasoon. I could have chosen sugar or rice - that would have at least kept my weight down. But I didn’t think of it at that time and picked garlic, which I was very partial to. So, in that sense, I didn’t deceive my Deviji at all. Giving up lasoon was my own wish. My own sacrifice. It was a mannat I took when my son was very sick. Now the boy is doing well in school, keeps good health and I can relax a little.

  But for the constant bak bak bak of my Madamji. She is a non-stop talker. From the time she opens her eyes till she falls asleep - she even talks to herself when nobody is around. It’s her old habit. But this frequent demand for chicken is annoying me. Arrey baba… who thinks of eating chicken morning, noon and night? That too, during a lockdown, when people are dying right and left of Corona?

  I explained to her nicely, ‘Madamji, please be understanding and patient. Once you go back to your own home and your cook starts coming on duty again, you can eat your Punjabi chicken every day, twice a day. But now that you are stuck in my small room… please try to understand my problem. I cannot bring chicken inside this room. Or my boy will fall sick again. He may get Corona. And if he gets infected, so will you. And if you get infected at your advanced age, well… frankly, you will not survive. Nobody will give you a bed in any hospital. Not even the big big very expensive ones which charge more than a lakh for one night inside the ICU. Ventilator and other kharcha on medicines and masks and all that, is extra. All the wards are over full, Madamji. Dead bodies are lying here and there… in the corridors, on the beds. Cremations have to be postponed - where to burn so many bodies? Do you really want to “off” just like that? No, na?’

  How much to samjhao her? First of all, Madamji is 87 years old… and she has soooooo many health problems. Too much khit pit, that too, non-stop. Yeh lao. Yeh do. Yeh karo. No other Maushi had lasted with her. Everyone said she was too bossy and raised her voice constantly. Nobody wanted to work for this katkati woman. Also, she used dirty English gaalis thinking we won’t understand! We all know the meaning of ‘Bitch’ and ‘Swine’ and ‘Bastard.’ I was warned about her by the building watchman.

  He had said, ‘That fourth floor wali buddhi is a pagal aurat. Bhoot type. Talks to herself and fights with everyone. Servants don’t last in her flat for more than a week - good luck!’

  When she opened the door, I did not expect to see such a tiny, shrunken woman. I suppose her loud voice on the phone when she interviewed me, gave the impression she was a huge lady. Anyway, I had come through an agency which supplied Maushis to people like her, and other patients who did not want to spend on day and night nurses, but could not manage on their own, either. I have been working as a Maushi for thirty-five years. Which means I am as good as any of those qualified nurses from Kerala. But I don’t have a degree and I cannot wear that smart nurses-wala starched white uniform.

  I wear sarees. Good sarees, mind you. I like to appear neat and efficient when I am on duty. That way, I get more respect. I am just a Maushi - I assist qualified nurses, some of whom are younger than my youngest daughter, who is twenty -three and lives in Mumbai with her husband. With my long experience as a Maushi I know much more than these bachcha nurses. I can do their job better than them. But I keep mum. Especially when the doctors come on visits. I can answer all their questions. But I don’t interfere. The nurses don’t like it, if I show off my knowledge.

  I am aware of my good qualities. If this Madamji had not kept me, I would have easily got another job - experienced Maushis are always in demand. Surprisingly, Madamji liked my personality and approach. She told me she would keep me on a trial basis for a week, and then decide. That was nine years ago! I understood Madamji’s needs very quickly. She required a Maushi to stay eight hours with her, as she couldn’t go to the bathroom on her own, and, also, she needed help while bathing.

  At night, she kept a proper Kerala nurse to give her a bed pan, and nebuliser because of her breathing difficulties, check her blood pressure, monitor her sugar levels, give her an injection if needed, make sure she took her anti-anxiety pills, see that her blanket was properly fixed and all that. This system had worked out well for both of us. Madamji was a very wealthy lady. Everybody in the locality knew her. They used to make fun of her for being stingy even though she had so much money. But she was okay with me. And in any case her London-wali daughter paid for everything.

  I soon became a part of her household. We had a fixed routine after I reported for work at 8 a.m. and relieved the night nurse. I won’t bore you with all those details, but this is to say I knew Madamji inside out. All her habits were known to me - from the way she liked her fruit to be cut and served, to the toilet paper brand she preferred. How can there be any secrets when two people live with each other so closely, with one person completely dependent on the other for everything?

  I treated Madamji like my baby - I fed her, bathed her, cleaned her, changed her clothes, combed her hair, cut her toe nails, entertained her by singing her favourite songs, watched the TV news and a few Hindi serials with her, helped her pay her bills
, accompanied her to the bank and grocery store. Sometimes we went to her hair salon, where she had a regular manicure-pedicure appointment. Since she didn’t like walking with a stick, she would place her left hand on my right shoulder as we crossed the road, or went for a small stroll in the nearby garden. If we went for a drive, she would eat ice cream on the way home. She was chalega that way - she would get ice cream for me and the driver as well - but smaller cups for us, and a large one for herself.

  All was going smoothly, till the lockdown was announced on 24th March. Madamji’s night nurse called to say she wouldn’t be able to come any longer, till this lockdown and curfew was lifted. Madamji was stunned! She went completely blank and disconnected the phone. She then looked at me sternly and said, ‘That’s it then. If the night nurse cannot come, you cannot go. How will I manage on my own? You have to stay!’

  I thought quickly - and told her firmly, ‘Madamji… you know very well I cannot stay the night anywhere. My husband and I have an understanding. My boy is only ten, he needs me. I have to cook for both of them. My salary keeps my kitchen fires burning. And if I stay here tonight, I will be stuck for God knows how many days! It is impossible.”

  She hobbled to where I was standing. I thought she was going to slap me. But no! She took me completely off guard! Madamji changed her domineering personality just like that. Next minute, she was pleading… her voice had become that of a little child. She lowered her eyes, stood before me, bowed her head, joined her hands and said, ‘I BEG of you. I will pay anything you ask for. I will give you enough money…. jewellery… educate your boy, even get your useless husband a job in my friend’s house. But you cannot walk away and leave me alone.’

  Then she started crying… howling. My Madam! I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. Before I could react, she fell at my feet, ‘If you leave tonight, you won’t be able to return at all till the lockdown is lifted. Nobody else will be able to enter my home either. The rules are very strict. Who will look after me? Help me? I will starve and die a dog’s death.’

  I didn’t know what to do or say. I was so embarrassed by my Madam touching my feet. I told her to call her daughter in London and ask her what to do. Madamji tried several times but the daughter did not take the call. I had a few minutes to think coolly and take a decision. I took it on my own without consulting my husband or son. While she was dialing London again, I told her in a clear firm voice, ‘Madamji, there is only one solution.’

  She looked up, the tears were still rolling down her cheeks. I said, ‘I cannot stay here with you.’ She started to howl and clutch my saree. Then I added, ‘But you can come and stay with me.’ Madamji was too shocked at first. Her mouth was open and she was just staring and staring.

  I thought she would shout at me for suggesting something so ridiculous! How could such a big, well-known Madamji residing in a luxury flat come and live in a Maushi’s small little house located inside a very crowded locality? She paused. She must have been making some calculations.

  Then, she wiped her tears quickly, looked me straight in the eye and said slowly, ‘You are absolutely right. There is no other choice, is there? Either I go with you, or I stay here and die. I am not ready to die. Come on… don’t waste so much time gazing stupidly at me. What are you waiting for? Get on with it and start packing. I will tell you which nighties to put into my suitcase. Take the old bag. Why take the other foreign one to your… your… ’

  I knew she wanted to say ‘Your small and dirty, little home in the slums’. But she is smart that way - my Madamji! She kept quiet and smiled. ‘I will be nice to your husband, don’t worry. Your boy, too. What’s his name? And do let him know your salary is doubled from this month. And haan, please take only my rubber chappals. Leave the leather sandals here. I won’t be needing them for some time. Listen - I hope you have a western style toilet, that too, inside your house? Not a filthy common loo?’

  I didn’t reply. Let her find out for herself what we have and what we don’t.

  Imagine! She has been stuck inside a poor person’s home - mine - for more than two months! Eating what we eat, sleeping on a cot my husband gave up for her, using our Indian style toilet, drinking our type of tea. Who would believe such a story! Madamji… living with a Maushi in her kholi. Because the option was a lonely death as a rich lady in a huge flat with nobody to look after her. No chicken in her own house. No chicken in my house. Her only wish nowadays! I am feeling sorry for Madamji. On her last day here once the lockdown ends, I will get my neighbour to prepare a komdi dish for her. My husband has agreed to pay for it. I will pack it up in a plastic dabba - how can I give it in my husband’s steel tiffin box? It will get polluted by chicken and I will have to throw it away. Plastic is best. Then, I will request my husband’s taxiwala friend to come here to fetch madamji. Once she reaches home, she can sit at her round, glass dining table and eat chicken aaram se, with a knife and fork and all that. What a strange situation, you must be thinking. But the times are also strange, na?

  BEACH HOUSE BIRTHDAY

  ‘Oye… where are you guys? Come and watch the cyclone… it’s pretty awesome.’ Idiots! Must be bloody lolling around watching some dumbass shows. Jesus! Just my luck I had to get stuck with this bunch of losers. This is my fucking set-up… it was meant to be a chilled out weekend bringing in my wife’s thirtieth - not this shitty lockdown crap of getting locked in with her stupid galpal chamchis.

  Gawd! One stupider than the other. Them - and me! Thank God we have our staff staying with us… or else, I swear I would have started swimming back to Mumbai as soon as we got the news about the lockdown happening. Even when we heard it, I didn’t take it seriously. I said to my staff, ‘Dekha jayega, guys…’ and I got myself a drink. See… had all of us been given proper time to get organised, we would have managed somehow. But come on… what the fuck could we do from Awas at 8 p.m. on a fucking Sunday, that too? I love my set-up here and all that. But this place is a village, okay? And the jetty in Mandwa is not in my backyard. We still have to drive there to catch a boat back to Mumbai. Upar se, Mandwa is not Monaco, that we can just jump into a speedboat from our private jetty and bugger off. Idhar toh there is bhaari security and stuff. Besides, the boats weren’t plying, the sea was closed. Had Shah Rukh been in my place, even he would not have been able to do a thing! And imagine King Khan and I are almost like neighbours here in Alibaug! Not aamney samne... my beach house is in Awas and his is close by in another village, but still, yaar, we are neighbours here.

  Driving back was also out. I checked. Called my cop friends - yeah, yeah, the same ones I go dance for like a trained monkey at the annual police event. Shit man! I mean, we could have got our shit together and left for Mumbai, like a few people did. But who was sane that night? I bloody couldn’t get my head straight. Had done stuff... plus, all those shots... nothing was making sense. Those women were on some other trip... in some other zone. Honestly speaking, we really thought we could do the usual setting the next morning... bribe a few cops. Bas.

  But this fucking party was not meant to end that way... or that quickly. By the time we woke up, it was two in the afternoon. My manager had called a hundred times. I still didn’t think we were going to be stuck here. I phoned Mr. Fixer - everybody’s favourite cop. Pandayji said, ‘No chance!’

  He said, ‘Sorry boss… orders. You will need special permission to cross districts and enter the city. Not safe. Stay there, only. Have fun! Relax… eat… mauj karo. All are in the same boat, Arnavji!’

  Have fun my ass! Birthday-shirthday was okay. I could explain all this party shit to Ema. She is also not that thick to throw attitude for something like this. I mean, come on… Shams and I have been married for six years - dated for four. Ten years, yaar! We have been together for a fucking decade. Shams was there when I was a fucking nobody - just another chikna chap from Bhopal desperate to get into Bollywood.

  Whatever may have gone wrong later, she was fucking there, solidly behind me, even when her parents wan
ted her to break off and marry that paisawala Marwari fucker from Kolkata. I may be a low class harami, but I can’t forget all that and ignore her big birthday. Shams hadn’t asked for anything impossible - she just wanted to celebrate it at this home in Alibaug with her friends - you know, style mein, champagne-wampagne ke saath. Why not, yaar? Big deal. Shams was not like that those other bitches from the star wives brigade. I was shocked at some of the crazy demands these women made. Woh meri heroine from Door Ho Jao, that sexy Sanam, yaar, had told me she had given an ultimatum to Rehan - ‘I want a Rolls and a 7-carat pink ...’ And that bloody fool husband had given her the ring, but told her to settle for a Porsche, not a Rolls. She had said, ‘How cheap!’ Yeah... Our industry is like this only. You have to keep the wives khushhhhh.

  When I brought up Shams’ birthday plan, my woman, Ema, sweetly said, ‘Okay baby… go for one night… I will manage. A birthday is a birthday. You both have to do it for Insta and all that… I am cool with it.’ She is smart, that girl. Most of these safed chamdi chicas hanging around on the sets are very smart. Russians are all over the place. Achha Ukrainians… Lithuanians… Estonians… Latvians… by now, I know all the different countries they come from. Mine is from Slovenia. Ema keeps showing off and telling everybody her family is related to Melania Trump. As if!

  Not that I care. And in our business, nobody wants to know where these girls come from. So long as they exist! And they give. I met Ema at a party - my producer had wanted to celebrate the success of ‘Jaanu’, our big hit. Or so he said. God knows - maybe he had laid a new chick or fathered a son somewhere. We were in the middle of our new shoot - the sequel to ‘Jaanu’. I was going to skip his rubbish party - no lines, cheap booze, and wall-to-wall hookers. But I had to go to show my face. And there she was - Ema! Three inches taller than me… taut butt, blond… like those James Bond type girls.