we are like this only

My present domestic help is far from being the only Suppandi I have come across, and some of the stories are too good not to share. Years back, at my office, we had a security guard named Pyarey Lal. A thin, weedy-looking specimen with reedy voice to match. Once one of the girls in office had complained that the cab driver had tried to act fresh when he dropped her home late at night from work. So the head of the office issued a diktat that if any girl worked later than 8 p.m., one of the security guards would escort her home in the cab. One night, I was working till about 3 a.m. editing a film. It being winter, the night was bitterly dark by the time I finished work so I called up the guard from the studio and told him he'd have to drop me home. Of course, with my luck, the guard on duty was Pyarey Lal. "Who said I have to drop you home?" "The head of the office" "How far is your place?" "Half an hour" "Goodness gracious, you expect me ...

I was lucky enough to have both my grandmas around when I was growing up. I met them during our summer hols, when we went south every year. Mysore ajji - dad's mum, was the one I considered more fun. She used to keep lumps of kal-sakre (coloured rock sugar) hidden away for me, tell me stories when she could speak, make much of me and my sister and never interfered with our play. Bangalore used to be boring - a house with no kids except me and my sister, an ajji who was into madi - orthodox to the core - she wouldn't let us touch her or enter the kitchen in the morning till she was done cooking. Her usual advice used to be, "Be a good girl and obey your parents", and our outings used to consist of a walk to the nearest vegetable market or temple. It was only after I became a mother that I saw ajji in a different light. From an orthodox hindu brahmin who never even drank water at anyone else's house, she transitioned to affectionately accepting my muslim husband, at...