Last night we had a party at our place. Totally, there were 17 of us…and like every good house party, it was loud, chaotic, and beautiful.
Like the Avengers, everyone in the gang came with different superpowers.
Some were amazing singers. Some danced as if they had practiced in front of mirrors for years. Some told stories so well that even their lies sounded motivational.
And then there are all-rounders like me – people who don’t know singing, dancing, or storytelling but end up appearing in most videos because whatever they did was funny.
Most of the food was prepared at home by Rekha and my chef-to-be daughter, Rhea. Everybody loved it.
We also finished multiple bottles of whiskey, vodka, and beer. If you know me well, you will know that I prefer Old Monk. Not because I am loyal to Old Monk, but because it is the cheapest and safest route to happiness for middle-class men.
But yesterday, I decided to have whiskey. After all, variety is the spice of life.
I could have had a bit of whiskey and then a bit of Old Monk, but I was reminded of my father’s golden advice on drinking: “Son, drinking is like cheating. Never let them meet. If Rum and whiskey meet…especially on the same night…you are going to have a headache that’s difficult to manage.
I still believe my dad was referring to hangovers.
Anyway, this morning when I woke up, there were empty bottles near the kitchen garbage bin.
That’s when Rekha said, “Rajan, please dispose of those bottles before Ponni comes.”
Ponni has been with us for the last five years. She helps keep our house clean and our marriage intact.
Not just today… Rekha does this after every party. Apparently, she doesn’t want Ponni to think we are drunkards.
Sometimes, when I have a mild hangover and can’t fully control my emotions, I feel like asking: “Should we also pour milk into four glasses and leave them in the sink? So that Ponni thinks we are a cultured family that drinks Boost while partying.”
But as I have always maintained, we Rajans are brave…but not stupid. We know that hangovers, Disprin is the best cure, and not a revolution.
And the funny thing is…Rekha doesn’t do this only after parties. This happens on normal days, too.
“Rajan, why are the newspapers lying here? Ponni will come any moment.”
“Rajan, fold your bedsheet. It is not nice if Ponni sees a messy bed.”
“Ritwik, keep the cushions properly….Ponni aunty is almost here.”
“Rhea, I want all the utensils you have used in the sink before Ponni aunty comes.”
Suddenly, everybody in the house gets assigned duties as if we are preparing for a surprise military inspection.
It feels as if Ponni is about to enter the house wearing dark glasses and a colonel’s uniform, carrying a clipboard.
At this point, I have started wondering whether Ponni works for us…or we work for Ponni.
I don’t understand this fear Rekha has of being judged by the domestic help. I have a vague feeling that many of the ladies out there also have this fear.
I strongly feel there are three professions from whom you should never hide anything – a doctor, a lawyer, and a domestic help.
Agreed, to become a domestic help, you don’t have to write an entrance exam twice – once before the paper is leaked and once after, but it is also a very important profession.
They know which couple fought the previous night.
They know which husband sleeps in the hall after arguments.
They know which child failed Maths.
They also know which husbands suddenly become “very loving” after two pegs.
They know which family orders food from outside and transfers it into steel vessels before relatives arrive.
The most Indian thing ever is cleaning the house before the domestic help comes to clean the house. Dear women, they know the truth, so don’t bother.
Right now, Ponni is sure to know more about us than the Income Tax department, the local Police, and even the Enforcement Directorate.
Over the last 20 years, we Rajans have figured out that curiosity did kill the crow. Wait…was it the cat? Either way, you get the drift. And that is why we have navigated away from curiosity.
But then, when panic grips the house every day, exactly fifteen minutes before Ponni’s arrival….we can’t take it lying down.
So one day, unable to control my curiosity, I finally asked: “Why do you care so much what Ponni thinks?”
Rekha stopped for a second and looked at me.
Then she said, “Because she sees the house in its original condition every day.”
“I don’t understand,” I asked.
Rekha continued, “Our relatives see the version of us we want to show. Our friends see the version we perform. And on social media, the followers see the version we portray.”
I was still confused. “What does that have to do with Ponni?” I asked.
“But Ponni sees the director’s cut. The unedited version.” Rekha raised her eyebrows, and her palms were upwards in the air as she waited dramatically for my response.
When Rekha saw that I was still confused about what she was trying to say, she added, “Which is why, before she arrives, I don’t clean the house. I remove the evidence.”
I didn’t agree with my wife, but who am I to say that out loud?
In a marriage, there are two kinds of right – one when your wife is actually right, and another when your wife is not right, but you play along to maintain sanity.
Some amateurs will argue that there are three kinds of right, the third one being when the husband is right. No sire! Not happening.
Even Martin Luther King, the man who said, “I have a dream!” didn’t dream of being right in his marriage. Instead, he chose a much easier dream – of a world where people are judged by ‘the content of their character’ rather than the color of their skin.
So I quietly took the empty bottles and disposed of them in the garbage chute before Ponni arrived.
Because in Indian households, before the domestic help comes, we don’t clean the house. We remove the evidence.