Of Ramu Kakas and Kanta Bais

You know how you're walkin' along the road and you suddenly remember a scene from a movie and burst out laughing?

Happened to me yesterday.

Movie - Ishq Vishq
Scene - Mambo saying "Rajiv, bai kya insaan nahin hoti?"

One thought led to another and soon I was thinking about bais in movies. It started with Kantaben from Kal Ho Na Ho and then moved on to Javed Jaffrey from Salaam-Namaste saying "Mujhe kaam waliyan bahut pasand hain!"

Then I started thinking of how these domestic helpers are portrayed in Hindi movies. Often, in a lot of Hindi movies, whenever they want to talk about how rich a guy was, they'd say "Uske paas kya nahin hai? Bangla-gaadi-naukar-chaakar!"

"What doesn't he have? Bungalow, car, servant... err... servant again?" (Is there a difference between naukar and chaakar? I guess naukar-chaakar just means loadsa servants?)

One of the most common characters in Hindi movies from the 70s would be the loyal and lovable Ramu Kaka. Inevitably there would be a scene showing him take the red towel off his shoulder to wipe the tears brought about by:

1. Bahu rani's plight due to ill-treatment by mother-in-law
2. Chhoti bahu demanding a share of the property, breaking up the happy joint family
3. Chhote malik coming back drunk every night because his girlfriend got married to someone else
4. Bade malik not being able to pay off his debts and having to mortgage and subsequently leave the house

We have all come across a Ramu Kaka at one point or the other, haven't we?

When I was a little girl, we moved around a lot due to Dad's frequent transfers. And so I grew up seeing a lot of Ramu Kakas and his female equivalents. This post is in honour of all the domestic helpers I have ever met, many of whom have been a significant part of my childhood.

Paro
Paro was around when my Mom gave birth to me. According to Mom, Paro was the one who did my tel-maalish and all that. (So I owe my strong bones to her!) She's around 60 but she's still working at my grandma's place! Every time I go back home, Mom buys a sari and asks me to give it to Paro and tell her that it's from Singapore. "Sari from Singapore??!! Mom! Please!" I'd protest. And she'd say, "Just do what I say. It makes her happy!" And I would actually go to her and say, "Paro, I brought you this sari from Singapore." And she'd be so overwhelmed with emotion, she'd start crying. And Mom would start crying, and everyone would start crying. And I'd stand there with the sari, looking rather silly. And my idiotic cousin would try to break the ice by singing "Kya ada kya jalwe tere, Paro!"

Hundi apa
Hundi apa was my nanny till I was about five. She'd put me on the swing and feed my meals. Even now, I wish I had a swing where I could have my meals. When my sister would come back from school, Hundi apa would ask her, "So what are your friends' names?" And my sister would proudly say, "Inder, Mili, Jaswinder, etc. etc." Then Hundi apa would turn to tease me (she knew I couldn't wait to start school) and ask me "And what are your friends' names?" And I'd toss my head and say, "Inder, Minder, Jaswinder!" My sister would run in to complain to Mom, "Look Mom, she's stealing all my friends' names!" while Hundi apa would burst into laughter. Hundi apa got married soon after I joined school and went to live in her own house. Mom speaks to her on the phone now and then. She told Mom that when I get married, she will be there.

Om Prakash
I was about six when he came to work for us. On his first day at work, Mom asked him, "What is your name?"

"Om Parkaas", he replied.

I was appalled.

I went to him later and asked, "Om Prakash, what is your name?"

And he'd repeat, "Om Parkaas".

"It's not Om Parkaas. It's Om Prakash! Say it!"

"Om Parkaas?"

And I'd exclaim in frustration, "Offo Om Prakash, you don't even know your own name?" And he'd blush, while every one else guffawed at the little imp trying to teach him to say his own name correctly. Om Prakash was my hindi music buddy. (Yes, I'd got addicted to Hindi music even in the days when I did not even understand Hindi!) I'd go and buy the cassettes with Dad, and Om Prakash would ask me later, "Piku ji, can I borrow this one?" And I'd say, "Okay, but after I've heard it ten times, okay?" All cassette dealings were directly between Om Prakash and the 6-year-old "Piku ji". My highly amused parents did not interfere.

Kulinder
He was my childhood friend's cook. Every time I saw him, I'd sing the song from the movie 'Mr. India' but modify the lyrics to "Tera naam hai Kulinder, tu toh chala kitchen ke andar!" And I'd burst out laughing, without him as much as raising an eyebrow. Errr... I don't think he liked me. I don't think he liked anyone, actually. My friend, a marwari, would have lunch at my place once in a while (she loved fish, but she was supposedly a vegetarian, so she could not have it at home, so her Mom let her have it at my place). And I'd go to her place and have yummy phulkas made by Kulinder.

Sudheer
He was my neighbour's domestic helper. I used to borrow his guy-bicycle and ride it around till Dad got me my own 'girly' bicycle. My sister and I taught him to read and write under the 'Each one, teach one' literacy campaign that was going on in India then. He was 17 and married!

He'd say, "Do you know why I am learning to read and write?"

"Why?" I'd ask.

"Because I married my wife when she was five and I was seven. Then I came here to the city to work and she went back to her village. I am supposed to bring her to live with me when she turns 18. But I have heard she's taller than me. How was I supposed to know that when I married her, that she'd grow taller than me?" He looked pained.

"But now I know how to read and write, and she doesn't. Hah!" He'd grin.

Bana
Bana (or 'Banambara', his full name) has been with my grandma's family since the time I was a tiny little girl. He refuses to look any older, but his pot belly seems to grow at an alarming rate. He's been around for so long, that he can get away with giving attitude to my cousins! The brats are notorious for never being at home. So Bana would not cook lunch for them. Now Bana's biryani is so famous my mamaji's friends "borrow" him for their parties. On the days he made biryani, my wandering cousins would somehow hear of it and rush back to demand it. And he'd say, "If you tell me you'll be home for lunch, I'll save some biryani for you. You can't expect me to save it for you if you suddenly turn up at 4!" Whoala, what attitude. Awesome!

Rabi
Pronounced 'Robbie', he's the new addition to my grandma's place. The last time I went home, I took shirts/deos for all the helpers, and I did for Rabi too, though I had never seen him before (I usually call up Mom for a headcount before I go to India every year, and she'd told me there was a new guy). I guess he really did not expect me to take anything for him, and was really surprised to see a gift for him. And after that, he always made sure he took very special care of me. He'd refill the water in the bottle the moment it was empty. He'd ask me first thing in the morning what I wanted to eat in each meal. I just had to crave for pani puri and he'd go and call the pani-puri wala! In spite of my parents' disapproval, he makes a little princess out of me every time I go home.

Shyamla and Renuka
This pair of sisters worked at my house when my parents were at Hyderabad. Neither spoke much Hindi. (Don't even ask how my Mom managed to communicate with them. Mom's the kind who'd hold a book called 'Learn Telugu in 30 days' in one hand and use the other hand to bargain with the machhi-wali.) But I had a tough time trying to talk to Shyamla and Renuka. Mom said they'd often ask her when I was going home next, referring to me as "Singapore didi" ("Singapore sister") or "mehndi wali didi" ("sister with the mehndi) cos every time I went back, I'd do mehndi for them. And they'd sit around me while getting their mehndi done, and ask me about Singapore in words that I could only vaguely understand.

Sometimes, I feel so glad that once I was old enough to take care of myself, my parents did not let me get too dependent on the Ramu Kakas of my life. I could never get away with a statement like "Ramu Kaka, ek glass pani dena." ("Ramu Kaka, bring me a glass of water.") In spite of all the Ramu Kakas, I always always had to move my ass and get my own glass of pani. Or whatever I wanted.

Without that attitude, learning to live by myself in Singapore would have been so much harder.