What name could be more original than ‘Original’? One of my maidservants was bestowed with this quaint appellative. How she came to be known as ‘Original’ is precisely the story that I am about to relate. In fact, I had completely forgotten about Original but a recent article in the Deccan Chronicle, brought back instant memories of her. This piece was about ‘Men getting naughty after forty’ and revealed a number of cases of middle- aged gentlemen who were involved in extra marital affairs. They were the most unlikely sorts- who seemed so loving and caring for their family. The article also portrayed the conduct about the desperate wives who cleverly pretended not to know, so that the charade of ‘my darling wife’ continued and they were not suddenly deserted and left to fend for themselves.
During our tenure in Calcutta (sorry Kolkata), we were allotted a Bungalow that could house at least twenty people. It had about eighteen rooms and perhaps in Bombay (sorry Mumbai), a hundred could easily squeeze into it. But my husband and I lived there with our two tiny tots. In the Garden Reach Railway colony, apart from our antiquated bungalow, there were two more such buildings that looked almost identical. While it was true that the South Eastern Railway Office building was initially the Palace of Nawab Wajid Ali Shah, it was rumoured that each of these matching chalets, had been a gift to the Nawab’s three concubines, in return for the services rendered.
Our drawing room was precisely thirty by eighty feet, with shiny tiled and vibrant ornamental flooring. Since the concept of mujras was outdated and since we did not believe in ballroom dancing and since the chattels of my dowry occupied only one fourth of the mammoth area, the children usually held all their sporting events indoors. But even a drawing room cum badminton court cum cricket field needed maintenance and since the house was of epic proportions, the Railway authorities had very generously allotted one garage and four outhouses per bungalow, to ensure its proper upkeep.
Owning a car back then was only a dream and as dreams do not occupy any space, we benevolently allowed a family of eight to reside in our garage. One of the outhouses, we offered it to our Bungalow Peon (one of those Railway jerks, sorry perks). The second belonged to the dhobi, a man adept in ironing away all the wrinkles from our life. In the third outhouse lived Shanti, a peaceful woman, whose job entailed the hygienic preservation of the toilets. But thanks to the dhobi, (he kept our bathroom sparkling clean, by daily banging our clothing on it), Shanti came silently, flushed the toilets noisily and left quietly. The fourth outhouse was empty.
One day, my Bungalow Peon Mannu, brought home a subdued middle- aged woman. Mannu the Supervisor, explained (logically, of course) that since sweeping, swabbing, scrubbing and scouring were much more suited to a female pair of hands and since the woman was dirt poor, could she please occupy the fourth outhouse? We agreed.
When this woman first came to our house and I questioned about her identity, she mumbled something unpronounceable that vaguely sounded like Saraswati. One day while stirring the gravy, I casually mentioned about the sadness that was all the time reflected in the woman’s eyes. Immediately Mannu the gossipmonger found the opening that he was waiting for. ‘Uska aadmi sab Duplicate ko laata hai na, isliye’, he said by way of explanation.
I was perplexed. Normally I am not a nosy parker but the ‘Duplicate’ bit intrigued me. He then started to relate her tale of woe. Of how her husband was the straying sort and of how he had been involved with so many other women and of how at present he had another woman living in the same house. And she had absolutely no say in it, I enquired flabbergasted. ‘Yeh kya bolega? he said, with a flamboyance that was now beginning to annoy me. ‘Yeh bahut lucky hai. Yeh Orjinaal hai na.’
The next day Mannu came to say that ‘Shaashwoti’ would be a little late for work. ‘Who?’ I asked him, not well versed with the correct way her name was pronounced. ‘Woh orjinaal’ he stressed. I immediately understood. Naturally I related the ‘original’ story to my husband. A few days later, I mentioned to him that Shaashwoti wanted a raise. ‘Who?’ he asked. ‘That Original’, I said. He understood too. And the name stuck!
Not only was ‘Original’ more pronounceable, it was more comprehensible and more intriguing. And it always had a story attached to it. Every time we called out her name (and the funny thing was, even she began responding to it), any newcomer in the room would automatically raise their eyebrows. Then explanations, enjoyment and laughter would follow. I do not know if Original ever understood the tacit mockery beneath our conversations. I do not even know whether the hundreds of relations and friends who listened to the amusing account, ever comprehended the unspoken moral attached to the story - of how much anguish there is for an original to be taken for granted. That anything original, be it inanimate or animate, indeed had some exclusive rights. And that ‘copyright’ did not necessarily mean the right to copy. Nor the right to bring home a replacement. But even if they did understand, human beings have a unique way of overlooking the gravity in issues that they think are anecdotal.
Often I found Mannu trying to strike up a conversation with Original. And she would always smile back shyly, afraid to even flirt with him. I couldn’t help but wonder about the reaction of the husband, if Original had suddenly decided to spring a Duplicate on him. Or was this licensing of the spares and the supplementary meant only for the tough and the powerful?
Original remained with us for exactly five years. And every day of every year, she religiously spent trying to keep the floors of our house scrupulously clean. Ironically, they were the same grounds where once the dancing feet of a Duplicate, had temptingly enticed yet another authoritative companion, from his Original Begum.
Nargis Natarajan.