Donning a bright
head scarf, apron, and rubber gloves, I fetch the cleaning liquids and brushes.
The radio
plays the title track from Pretty Woman as I pass by a mirror.
Then, armed
to the tooth, I prepare to clean the bathrooms and toilets.
Inspired by Mahatma
Gandhi, Mother Teresa, and others of their noble tribe, we do our own
housework. That implies that our house is not always impeccably clean.
On most days
I am casual about cleanliness but sometimes I get into a hyper-cleaning mood.
“This is a
home not a hotel. Please chill, yaar” says my husband.
There used
to be a little metallic sign in the living room of my parents’ house when we
were growing up. It read:
Welcome
Although you
will find our house in a mess
Come in, sit
down, converse.
It isn’t
always like this
Sometimes
it’s even worse.
As I am
musing about this, I hear the roar of a motorcycle die down. The doorbell
rings. I open the door to find a heavily built Sri Lankan lady in jeans
cradling a helmet.
“Good
morning” I say as she comes closer and takes a good look at me.
“Good
morning. Is your Madam at home?” she asks.
“Well,
I...er... Madam is busy” I answer clumsily.
“I was
looking for part-time work but I can see that your Madam has full time help.
Ok, bye” she says and her motorcycle roars off.
