The two women who help me at home are contrasting studies in Indian womanhood. One is 68-year-old, with weathered mahogany skin and a fierce spirit that shines through her frayed cotton sari. She left her alcoholic spouse in a Kerala village 15 years ago and journeyed to Delhi. She roundly curses the male species, exclaiming that she is much happier living alone. “No beatings, no fights, no horrible in-laws to look after,” she says.

But unlike many upper class women of her age, she is living out a good deed. Nine years ago she found a wailing newborn on the steps of the neighbourhood temple, and promptly adopted her. Thanks to her tender ministrations, the half-dead and undernourished baby metamorphosed into a little girl who is today the centre of Amma’s existence. Amma cooks all day and stitches all night to earn enough so that the little girl can become a teacher some day. The pretty little girl scores high grades in her English-medium school. And an exhausted Amma finds time to cook her delicacies, including continental fare she has learnt from me. I experienced a high recently while baking a cake for her ninth birthday. She was throwing a party for the children of a neighbouring jhuggi. The little girl bought me a little vegetable grater as a thank you gift. It is one of my most treasured possessions.

My other domestic help is Chanda — 26-years-old, pretty, but emaciated and worn. She has just delivered her fifth baby. A boy, finally. After producing a bevy of daughter in quick succession, her spouse resisted the pressure from his family to divorce her. He magnanimously gave her a last chance to produce a male heir and save her marriage. But her relief over having given birth to a son was short-lived. Her husband boozes with his pals while she battles to look after her children, without food or rest.

... contd.