The maid saga continues

I know I've been whining about the maid for a really long time. But you would too, if in the middle of some seriously challenging moment at work, you were compelled to count the number of spoons in your house. I've never done that kind of exercise before. Taking stock of the cutlery in my home from my workplace, which is a good hour-and-a-half drive away and that too when the pressure of meeting deadlines did not exactly leave room for this kind of mental calisthenics. But, this bit of unscheduled activity was not optional. It never is when I receive an order from the high command at home—my mother. A frantic call from her is always an emergency. This time, she complained of her blood pressure shooting up because one spoon had gone missing from its safe resting place inside the cutlery drawer. And let me tell you, she never misses to take stock of them at the end of every day. She was a banker; so everything has to tally. But, to fuss and hiss over a tiny little spoon was carrying things a bit too far. But, I know my mom. I also know what rising blood pressure can do to her and to me and to the temperature at home. So, I told her that not only would I check my bag, but that I would call up every soul who's ever eaten at our home with a spoon (and lived to tell the tale) to ensure that the goddamn missing spoon would find its way back home unharmed. It was wiser to count the spoons than count sheep at night because if that solitary spoon wasn't found, I was sure to lose a lot of sleep over it. At the end of a 25-minute intensive search, the spoon was located and my mom's blood pressure returned to normal. I will not tell you what happened to my boss' heart beats because of the unforeseen and highly embarrassing delay caused at work. At the end of the day, I was still counting—sheep and cows and buffaloes and herds of elephants and deer. Why? Because the maid, who was subjected to some hard-core interrogation, regarding the wayward spoon, by my mother decided to quit. She told me that she had never felt so like a criminal. This is the same maid who had declared on day one, in pure Bollywood blockbuster style, "Tum bhi majboor ho, main bhi majboor hoon." And she had thrown her head back, I suspect, a little mockingly. What an equaliser that statement was! If I had any illusions about being the employer and in a position to dictate terms, she'd shattered them with that one dialogue. Clearly, she was doing me a favour by agreeing to work for me, was going to get paid an obscene amount of money  for it and was also going to give me some gyan in return. Oh, I wanted to tell her off, and not look too happy that she was condescending to make my burden lighter. But, my nails hadn't grown for a whole two months with all the scrubbing, sweeping, washing that I had done. My hands felt like a metal scourer and my dreams had invariably begun to have a backdrop of the kitchen, the cooking platform and the sink. To think I endured all this ignominy and bullying only to be felled by a spoon! I told the lady that I was sorry if she was hurt but that she may have misunderstood my mom. But, she was clearly humiliated. Looking directly in my eyes, she hissed in Bollywood proud-destitute style, "Main majboor hoon, par chor nahin." I was touched to the quick and actually answered her back. Dialogue for dialogue. I'd to show her and convince myself too that I was still boss in my house: "Main bhi majboor hoon, par laachar nahin. Main kaam kar loongi." Even as I said it , I knew that I was erasing whatever little hope there was that she'd change her mind. And that I would get my hands back. I hoped my eyes would show the same fire as hers and my words the same sting. Deep inside my stomach, I felt a ball of fear rise. I tried to calm myself down, gave myself some pep talk. "Hey, you'll lose some weight," etc. The prospect of shedding excess baggage always excites me, but I didn't want to lose any by being a drudge again. So, the maid left, but not before telling me that she had dozens of spoons in her house and that she didn't need to rob one. Half an hour after she departed, I saw my mother emerge from the kitchen, ashen-faced and ridden with anxiety. "A ladle has gone missing." she said. Then she wagged her forefinger at me and continued triumphantly, "I'd told you so." This time, I decided not to join the search. As the once-again, new, full-time maid, I prefer to use my energy for bigger things!
Also, I eat with my fingers, these days.