“ONE, TWO, THREE... NINE, TEN.”

It’s been almost two years since I’ve had my maid work for me.. in perfect harmony for the most. She initially drove me nuts with her chatter at 7 am, and while a part of my grumpy behaviour was because I hate conversation before noon, the rest was because I couldn’t begin to fathom Gujarati spoken with a Nepali accent. Over time, we learnt to put up with each other.. I would manage a sleepy smile at the door and she would, well, shut up.

Today, she had been summoned on an exceptional spree, to the tune of Diwali-cleaning. Opening the door, I told her what was to be done and then went back to snoring. Awoken by her call what felt like a few seconds later, I went out to find her holding one of the legs of my dining table. And when I say Holding, I do not mean sitting under the table with her arms around it.. I saw her standing beside it, looking wonderingly at the piece of wood in her hands. How the table did not topple over is beyond me.

Then came the completely tangled, very vocal explanation. As realisation struck, I stopped gaping like a goldfish and glared as she plonked the leg into my hands. “Where do you think you’re going?” I asked, coldly. “This has to be fixed. Now.” I ignored the convoluted explanation of how only a carpenter could salvage it and sat down on the floor, hoping that the table would continue to hold. All was not lost, and as I emerged, battle-weary, after a full 20 mins, we had a restored piece of furniture, one that only rocked playfully when nudged, but did not fall.

I kept a watchful, beady eye on her as she continued to work. A quarter of an hour and crash later, came the replay. This time, I held my favourite lamp, my eyes shut, trying hard not to tear out my hair in frustration. The lamp was a Mica legacy, bought for me from a Delhi bazaar by a friend, and had survived my very destructive self for over four years. As I dwelt on what the lamp meant to me, I decided that this was the outside of too much. I had put up with strangely dismembered tables, broken door handles, and beheaded statuettes in past with no more than a sound trimming; I was to be meek no more.

She left the house a while later, much subdued, having seen the sleepy headed creature of everyday turn into a sarcastic monster with wild gestures and a penchant for lapsing into English in the more uncontrolled moments. As for me, I sat down to blog after 20 minutes of dedicated, if distressed, careful action with scissors and cellotape.

It is not to my liking, this. Especially, not before noon.