Twinkle Khanna Sheds Light On Significance Of Domestic Helps In Our Lives & How They're Treated

This blog was originally published on The Time Of India.

The car stops at the gate of an upscale building, let's just call it Jubilee Springs. After a quick salaam, the security guard asks the car owner and fourth floor resident to unlock the boot. He snaps, 'What is all this checking for, Shukla?' The guard sheepishly replies, 'What to do Sir ji, secretary saab has given the order.'

Shukla opens the boot. It is empty. Ignoring the belligerent resident's protests, he then opens the rear door of the car and there is an uneasy silence.

The fourth-floor sir ji has been caught red-handed smuggling in something that's more precious than gold after weeks of lockdown €” his domestic help.

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India has a hidden legion of sprightly, sari or salwar-clad women who swish into our homes, wash dishes, sweep floors and chop vegetables and then move on to their next pit stop for another round of chores.

According to The National Sample Survey Office, private households in India employ an estimated 39 lakh as domestic workers of which 26 lakh are female.

Despite their numbers, they are largely invisible. Unless we spot just their hands in the recently pulled down Kent RO advertisement, with the vile caption, "Are you allowing your maid to knead dough by hand? Her hands may be infected."

Or they are projected as acquisitions such as in a controversial Bookmybai.com ad a few years ago that said, "Diamonds are useless! This Valentine's day, gift your wife a maid".

Domestic workers are also seen as objects of careless lust. Like Sudha from Lust Stories who has sex with her employer, Ajit, when she is not cooking, cleaning or washing his underwear. When his marriage is fixed within her earshot, she accepts it with a helpless, silent equanimity. The class divide as firmly etched as if it was a border of a hostile country.

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In the BC (before Covid) era when I worked from a corner of our living room, I would watch Tai, as everyone in the household refers to her, rush in at 11am. She would then wage her daily war against dust and germs, a rhythm to her long-practised efficiency. An urgency to finish so that she could head back to her daughter by lunchtime. Her husband works occasionally as a tailor but she is the one the entire household depends on, the financial and emotional fulcrum of their lives.

When the lockdown was announced, I spoke to her about staying at home. She was quiet. Realising that she was probably unsure about getting her salary, I assured her that it would be deposited in her bank account each month. There was a palpable relief in her voice and she told me that in her network of domestic workers, most had been informed that they would not get paid if they were unable to come to work.

This did not come as a surprise. I had already seen WhatsApp groups where affluent women were posting messages asking, 'So are you guys paying your maids and drivers when they are staying at home?'

I asked her to take precautions, and keep a distance from people and she said, "Didi, there are more than 9 households sharing one bathroom. What distance can we keep? Whatever will be is now in God's hands.'

God, perhaps taking a leaf from the old testament and sending us epidemics and locusts, was preoccupied because Tai's husband eventually tested positive. Along with him, her family and her neighbours are currently all in quarantine. Luckily, her problems had not exacerbated as her husband was recovering well.

She asked me how things were at my end and when I informed her that aside from an ant infestation, the household was chugging along, she piped in with a tip, 'There is Laxman Rekha chalk in the cabinet under the basin. Use that and they will stop coming.'

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The tais of this world have allowed us to inhabit our avatars as modern-day Durgas. Their extra hands are the ones that help us keep all the balls juggling in the air.

But unlike other employer-employee relationships, this one has always been steeped in notions of caste and class. Deepika Mhatre, who started off as a domestic worker and went on to do stand up, shares this on stage, 'There's a special lift for people like me, special utensils that are separate from what they use. But when madam needs a massage, whose hands does she call for? Who puts zandu balm on her back, it's not Munni, it's me!'

In the last few weeks, with the lockdown extending endlessly, all the ladies who lunch and even the ones who munch on parathas at their desks, have begun recognising just how dependent they have been on their domestic workers.

The one silver lining to this epidemic could be an alteration in the way we collectively treat our helpers. The simplest way would be to give them the same respect that we expect from our employers.

In a society, where lockdown or no lockdown, Indian men, expect to sit and be served by the women in their lives, I suppose all the struggling baykos (wives) truly have a newfound appreciation for their bais.

Meanwhile in the foyer of Jubilee Springs, there is a new notice. 'We have received information about maids being sneaked in. Security is on high alert and will thoroughly check every car at the gate.'

Considering the building is in Khar and not Kargil, the high-security alert cracked me up and dare I say it, 'maid' my day.