From Bano's eyes

We take care of their children and do all the work for them while the parents enjoy their company and perks.

My shirt snags on the bus door as I get off. Ignoring the sniggering young boys looking on unabashedly, I straighten my shirt, wrap my intentionally mismatched dupatta more securely around myself and walk towards the apartments I work in as a maid.

Entering the reception area, I notice a new face behind the counter and know that he will ask me who I am and where I want to go. As expected, he does. I reply "201"and he makes the call,

"Baji, aap ki maasi aayi hai"

(Madam, your maid is here).

It’s ironic that the people I work for don’t use the term ‘maasi’ for me. They call me by my name and I am grateful for that. I have even heard them refer very euphemistically to me as ‘the woman who works for us’.

It’s interesting that the word ‘maasi’ originates from the Hindi word ‘mausi’ – meaning maternal aunt. A maasi should then be one of the most favourite people in the house, right? But then again, I am important. My begum sahib (mistress) becomes quite agitated if I am absent or even if I am late beyond my usual time of 8:30am. The kids clamour around me, asking me to dust their toys and to “please put away our books”. I must be as important as an aunt then.

Anyhow, I ring the bell and begum sahib opens the door with a smile and the usual questions, “How are things in your area today?” (I live in Lyari, an area worst-hit by the gang wars in Karachi) and “Are the buses running?” (CNG is unavailable 3-4 times a week, affecting thousands dependent on public transport).

I mumble the usual reply and get to work.

My daily duties include mopping, dusting, chopping vegetables, kneading the dough and doing laundry. It may sound like a lot but I’ve been doing this for so long that it’s like an extension of me now. I appreciate that begum sahib lets me do things independently, without constantly badgering me. I have friends in other houses who always complain that their mistresses stand on their heads while they do their chores.

As I clean the floors with a phool jharoo (broom), begum sahib’s eldest daughter enters the house. She throws her gym bag on the floor, sprawls on the couch and begins complaining about the various limbs that hurt and how her trainer made her do extra exercises because she had an extra helping of dessert the night before. I smile into my dupatta as I think how she would not have to spend so much money on the gym if she phool-jharooed her room every day!

While she’s whining to her mother about how painful it is to look good and stay fit, the cat jumps onto her lap demanding attention. This is the newest addition to the ever-growing animal population in the house, which includes a fish, a rabbit and few birds. She strokes the Persian cat absent-mindedly and fiddles with her phone (it must be new because until yesterday her phone was red and now she’s playing with a yellow one). Slapping her forehead with her palm, she scrambles to her feet – the cat jumping off and mewing in protest – and grabs her bag with one hand and her pumps with the other.

Startled, her mother looks up from the latest edition of a lawn magazine and asks her what happened. The daughter says, “Rooi (the cat, named so because she looks like cotton wool) has her vet appointment today!” and quickly scampers off to shower, all the while yelling instructions to me and Adam (the driver) to pack Rooi’s basket, toys and food.

This, I have understood in my time spent with this family and their animals, is what it means to have a pet when you are well off. The servants do all the work – cleaning litter boxes, replenishing food and water, ensuring they get adequate sun and air and keep them exercised – while the owners get to play with them.

Actually, that’s how they are with their kids too! We do all the work while the parents can enjoy their company. But who am I to complain? Begum sahib gives a decent wage, is mostly courteous, and gives me leftovers so that food isn’t wasted along with old clothes and household items. Oh! And of course two new suits for Eid.

Bringing myself back to the present, I prep Rooi, complete all other chores and bid farewell adding “Tomorrow at 8:30am Insha Allah (if God wills)” because living in Karachi in general, and Lyari in particular, it is imperative to include the will of God in every gesture and intent. As I walk two blocks to the bus stop, I smile again and shake my head thinking,

“If begum sahib’s daughter would walk two blocks in the sun and do phool jharoo every day, she would never worry about keeping fit!”