The Spy in the Ranks

“Amma… Naan Naalekku varamaatten.” I was engrossed in cutting vegetables for avial at the dining table, when Kannamma’s slangy drawl landed as an auditory missile. The scud was intended for Amma, my mother in law, who was making mysore pak with great concentration. Amma has this way of making her patented sweet during that lull in her day’s business, between breakfast and lunch. That way, nobody would pester her for those endless glasses of coffees or tiffin. She would NOT be disturbed while the ‘kadalama- nei- chakkarai’ combo gets to the correct consistency. She would not indulge in idle chatter at that time either.

I could see that Kannamma’s scud had landed, when I heard the chattuvam ( spatula) and idukki
( tongs) clatter to the floor. Turning my head 90 degrees, I watched as Amma faced the propagator of the salvo. I could read agony on her face, agony that her Mysore Pak would be ruined… but she valiantly ignored the realization, for the situation warranted her full attention. She could afford to waste one cup of kadalama, 2 cups of sugar and as much ghee, when the approaching storm was more sinister!

I could understand Amma’s dismay. Only the other day, Amma was telling me that Kannamma had started behaving in a rather odd manner lately. She was late often and had skipped a couple of afternoons giving vague excuses. “If I read the symptoms correctly, she is planning one of her frequent hiatuses.” I had grinned in an understanding manner. Amma would always regale me with her tales of angst as Kannamma disappeared for weeks either on her endless pilgrimmages or visiting her village for some birth, wedding or death. I could envisage a dozen and a half butterflies taking off inside her tummy. I could sympathize … as I had come to my in laws’ house on my annual summer vacation and in another two days, my husband’s brother and family would join us for a month too. I could well envisage the added chaos during Monsoon months with the resident maid playing hookey. We’d end up doing all the chores around the house. If Amma hated anything, that is making her daughters- in –law work during their vacation. “ You are here on vacation, just enjoy yourself,” she’d say if we offered to do something beyond the acceptable limits – like cutting veggies or folding washed laundry.

The mysore pak had met its waterloo. The critical moment when it should have been poured out into the eagerly awaiting greased plate had passed and the whole thing would have settled down rock hard in the pressure pan, not unlike the cow that plonks down in the middle of the road and refuses to budge. Yet, the spoilt lot of mysore pak mix was hardly the problem of the moment. The real catastrophe stood in front of her, short, dark, clad in one of her old chungidi sarees and on a defensive mode!

“What is it Kannamma?” I could sense Amma struggling to keep irritation and trepidation out of her voice.

I suppose one has to be very guarded and diplomatic at such moments. Ask any ‘ex- Indian president’. He’ll agree with me that such non committal yet pseudo- concerned expression and tone requires much practice and rehearsal for weeks before the impending visit of, say, the Head of State from a neighbouring country with whom your own nation pretends to have cordial relations!
“Amma, I have to attend a meeting tomorrow morning,” rejoined Kannamma. I could see Amma literally relax her muscles- especially the ones on her shoulders which had tautened to meet the crisis at hand.
“ Phoo! Only a meeting? Fine, tell your daughter in law to come instead of you,” Amma said in a tone that seemed to suggest that Kannamma was making a mountain out of such a tiny molehill of issues.

“ She can’t Amma. We are both going to the meeting,” came the reply.

I was surprised. Kannamma and her daughter in law never went anywhere together. In fact, they hated the sight of each other. Each would complain bitterly about the other often- even to me. If they were going anywhere together, it would be nothing short of the eighth wonder of the world. Obviously Amma’s thoughts were similar to mine.

“ Oh- Ho! Both of you are going? What special meeting is that for which you will go with your maattuppon ( DIL) with whom you barely even talk? Amma couldn’t control the tinge of sarcasm that had oozed into her voice.

“Amma, she’s the one who is taking me. For months I had resisted from getting involved in such ‘hoo-has’, but now the pressure is on me from all the four sides. My husband, my son, the neighbours and even the President...”

“The President?” Amma said, looking bewildered. I giggled as a penny dropped. Amma was probably thinking that Kannamma was about to attend a meeting with the President of India! “ Prathibha Patil?” she squeaked out before I could interpose.

“Ayyo…, Amma… the President of the District House Maids’ Association…” Kannamma tapped her forehead in exasperation. “Why would I go to see some politician from Delhi, Amma?” she continued. “Three months back… this leader is there …no? MLA Ulaganaadan, Amma… he has formed a union for the welfare of us, housemaids. It is compulsory for all of us to register and attend all the meetings. The meetings take place every Tuesday, 7 to 8 in the mornings in the kalmandapam of the Muthu Mariamman koil. Tomorrow there is an important meeting. Normally, I skip all these ‘union woonion’ things. But I am under pressure to go tomorrow.”

Amma stood there with her mouth open. Probably if those butterflies that had earlier taken off from her solar plexus were hovering nearby, they could have made good their escape… but Amma swallowed hard, right on time as though willing those errant butterflies to go back to where they belong!

Then I realized the import of the ominous words… An association for housemaids! That was all what we housewives needed to make our normally harried married life more miserable! As it is our plates are full, with demanding husbands, indolent children, errant maids a rotten system. For generations, we have been struggling, juggling our budgets, thanks to the unions controlling the merchants, vegetable venders and dhobis. Now this union for housemaids was a conspiracy to upset our already tottering applecart of domestic management!

The whole day I brooded over Kannamma’s words. They seemed to echo from the depths of my gloomy heart in an ominously oracular manner. I was oblivious to the concerned looks I attracted from the family as I picked at the food on my plate not relishing the avial of which I am ever so fond of. I continued to feel restless over teatime. I felt an urge to know what actually transpired in the Tuesday morning meetings. ‘Forewarned is forearmed’, somebody has said, and I decided to be forewarned and forearmed!

Yes! I decided to attend the meeting masquerading as a housemaid. Now…now… ‘masquerade’ is a rather harsh word to use for what I was about to do. I was just going to be an unobtrusive spectator to that meeting.

I don’t waste time, once I make my mind up. I rummaged through the store room cupboard, where Amma stacks her old cotton saris to be torn and used for dusting, wiping, and occasionally drying cleaned condiments and stuff on the terrace. I found an old and faded cotton sari of indeterminate ownership. It looked too shabby even for the purposes mentioned above. Maybe that was why it had been relegated to the dark interiors of that cupboard. Hah! Today it was being commissioned for a really important mission.

Next, I went to the garden and got the worn out Hawai chappal that lay there for years together without anyone using it. On my way back, I also plucked a ‘palluful’ of kanakambaram and kaakkada flowers and strung them up into half a mozham garland for adorning my hair. On second thoughts, I decided to leave the flowers off my disguise paraphernalia as no maid in my knowledge was well kempt enough to wear flowers on her hair, early in the morning.

I could see my lord and master taking in surreptitiously, all my preparations and sporting a curious and enquiring look each in his eyes… so I studiously avoided eye contact. What he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him, I told myself, knowing full well that any confession about my mission would be followed by detention orders.

Before going to sleep, I gave a mental once over to my plan of action and seeing no loopholes, I sighed contentedly. Tomorrow morning would be an adventure… Childlike, I thought of all the Secret Seven and Famous Five books I had read as a kid and giggled in anticipation before oozing off to sleep.
(To be continued.)