House hen

There are a few rules that I have made in my home. I try to apply them to my family and myself as closely as possible. For instance: No eating meals in front of the television; no talking to the hired help in a disrespectful manner; switching off the lights when one leaves a room; finishing off all the food that you have dished out on your plate; and so on and so forth. These guidelines are easily understood and adhered to by all of us. 

Also, one day of the week I have earmarked as my workday. Since I freelance for various publications, it helps me in disciplining myself, meeting my deadlines. But the problem is that this is also the day when the rest of the world is resting, with schools, offices, factories and most of the shops also closed. But in my own little universe, it is a time for toil. 

To get myself into the groove of things, the most important regulation I have drafted in my house is that whatever happens, I should not be disturbed when I am locked up in my study. To emphasise the point, I have told my domestic workers that unless there is an accident, a fire or some such excessive calamity, I must not be told about it. While I am working, that is. 

After a few clarifications like, are hunger pangs catastrophic, does the collapse of a garden shed qualify and is running out of cooking gas a disaster, by my over enthusiastic staff, they pretend to leave me alone. 

But there is this wise saying in my home country India, which, when roughly translated, means a home chicken and a lentil have the same value. What it highlights is the fact that even the most successful of persons are taken for granted when they are in their domestic territory. 

I should know. I am a prime example of this. Nobody takes my job seriously in my familial front. And since I don’t dress myself out in a formal jacket and move around with a sober briefcase bulging with official documents, my occupation is not given any importance. When I’m writing, my uniform consists of sweat pants, faded T-shirt and slip-on shoes. This is far too casual a look to be associated with any sense of authority. Or sobriety. 

My cellphone, which sometimes does not ring for so long that I even forget what my ringtone sounds like, usually starts ringing the minute I step into my den. Why can’t I put it on silent? Of course I can, but the worry that someone might pass away in far off lands, while my phone is on quiet mode, keeps interfering with my thoughts. 

This morning I put my phone inside the table drawer and my writing was cruising along smoothly. Then I heard some stage murmurs outside my door. 

“Why are you here today?” my housemaid was asking. 

“Water pressure-pump problem”, that sounded like the plumber. 

“Hush! Not so loud, who called you?” she screeched in a stage whisper. 

“I want to talk to Madam, why are you muttering?” he asked

“Shhhh! Come tomorrow,” she said.

“You shhhh yourself, and call Madam,” he interrupted

“Is house on fire? You had accident? Roof falling down?” she ticked off the list. 

“No, no and no,” he answered

“Then go, go and go,” she dismissed him. 

I must raise her salary, said the voice in my head!