The House Wife I Will Never Be

I've been joking about India domesticating me. I've taken up knitting (and about 1/3 of the way through a burgundy scarf), I cook (quite well sometimes), I clean, and I make sure everyone has a place to sleep and blanketing at night. One of the interns asked me if I was "the mom" on his first night here.

Sexy.

On the bright side, at least I know I can run a household of 10 plus people moderately well.

And this was fine. It's a learning experience. I actually quite like cooking, I find knitting soothing, and I like things clean. We've taken to joking about what fine wives we will make.

Except I was not cut out for the doting house wife thing. It's not me. My soul rebels and, like this afternoon, I am forced to hold back tears of absolute furry.

My boss's father is absolutely and utterly incapable of taking care of himself. He has been cared for (rather, waited on) from birth by the women that surround him (mother, sisters, wife and then daughters) and, unfortunately, his wife is in the city for two weeks. That means the tasks of feeding him and catering to his guests and heating his washing water fall to us. And when I say that they fall to us, it means they land in our lap at the exact moment that he wants them done.

Take today, for example.

"Kristen-a! Kristen-a"

"Yes, Papa B"

"Come here, come here"

"What is it Papa B?"

"Come here, I need you, come here."

I am then instructed to watch the man who is collecting all our plastic bottles, carry loads and loads of bags of plastic bottles from the back area, and to "vacate" the bags (he means "empty") while he sits watching, sitting in a chair with his newspaper.

Later, while I am dressing after my shower, the yells come again.

"Kristen-a! Kristen-a!"

And when I do not answer:

"Linda! Linda!"

And when she doesn't reply:

"Misu! Ohhh Misu!"

Finally I go. I am instructed (in every sense of the word) to make chai for the men coming with our gas cylinder (purchased "from the black," meaning the black market), and to take four eggs from his fridge to make 2 omelets. When I arrive with said chai and omelet's I am told to bring a bottle of water and to speak to these men in Punjabi. At this point my irritation level is incredibly high. Then Papa instructs me to, in some time, make one more omelet. I go to take the eggs in order to prepare the omelets for his highness and he says "No, no, not now. Later. When I call you."

Servitude does not look good on me.

And I have never, in all of my days, appreciated self-reliant men more.