I am punished thoroughly by the maids before our trip to the village - Tarek
As I start writing my last chapters of this saga - of my love affair with my maid - I would request the readers not to judge me too harshly. After all, I was a young man, full of hormones and testosterone, always horny as hell, and I was submitting - fully naked - to a lady, and she would rub my balls, stroke my cock and give me a spanking on my ass. I would have done anything for that.
I am also writing the story from memory, journaling the events as I remember, so some things may be out of order, or I may jump from event to event. Please keep this in mind; I am not here to write a literary masterpiece, but jot down from memory how the events unfolded. Moreover, in this particular chapter, you will see that I get punished a lot. You might think, why I would ever tolerate that. If you are thinking like that, you do not understand my love for Rashida. My love is my total submission to her, and her domination of me, including the beatings, is our love.
It was now nearing the end of the month of June. My convocation was last week, and it had been a grand affair. Following my graduation, my parents had thrown parties all week. Relatives from across the country and abroad had been here at our place, including my older siblings and their families. Everyone had just left two days ago.
Today was a weekday morning. My father wasn't in town; he was in Delhi looking after the business there, and hunting for an apartment where I would stay with Rashida from end of August, when I would take over the family business there. He was returning to town in three days. My mother was at home, working on some official documents. Also home were our two maids - the older buxom maid Rashida, and the new, younger, maid girl Zarine.
As for me, I was enjoying my brief time of doing nothing. I knew soon I would have lots of responsibilities. In a three day's time, the day my father would return, I would be traveling with my maid Rashida to her village and stay there for some time - almost a whole month. I would be living with Rashida, her elderly mother, and her younger sister. Knowing Rashida, I would spend the whole month in service to her family and friends in the village.
The excuse I had told my folks was that I wanted to see and understand village life, to better understand how to start marketing the goods that we have, to a lower economic class. And of course, by end August, I was going to move to Delhi, along with Rashida to serve me as my maid, to take over my father's business there. Lot of responsibilities, and hence I was enjoying this little time off.
Today I was to meet my friends and then we were to go for a cinema. I bade my mother goodbye, got dressed and headed out of the house. I had a brand-new mobile phone, state of the art for that time, as a graduation gift. And then it rang.
Almost immediately after stepping out of the house, one of my friends had called me to say our meet up was cancelled as some people couldn't make it. Instead, we were to meet up in the evening, if I was free.
I hated sudden change of plans, and I hated people who committed to something and then backed out at the last minute.
So rather glumly, and angrily, I traced my steps back and re-entered my house, merely fifteen minutes after leaving it. I don't think any one in the home realized I was back, as they had all heard me leave. I had spent half an hour this morning arguing over something with my mother, so I wanted to go back to her study to sort of apologize to her.
And that's how, by pure dumb luck, I found out another of those juicy family secrets.
"Rashida!" I heard my mother, working from her study, call out our senior maid. "Can you bring my tea in here please! And hurry."
"Yes,
memsaab
." I heard my chubby maid Rashida's reply as she started to walk heavily up the stairs from the kitchen towards my mother's study. "I am bringing the tea upstairs,
memsaab
."
"Good!" My mom replied. "I also want to talk to you about some things, Rashida."
For some reason, suddenly, I decided I want to see ... or rather learn ... what my mom wanted with our older maid. What she wanted to "talk to her" about.
My mom usually didn't deal much with the help, except for orders here and there, and 'fetch me this' or 'make me that'. If they did their duties like cooking, cleaning etc., she usually left them alone. She was unique, my mother. When most women in that era were content being housewives, especially if their husband was a businessman, my mom was a successful professional in her own right. She managed a small consultancy and was a board member of several large corporations. This is why she didn't get into the petty domestic squabbles that her peers usually did, and this is partly why Rashida as the senior maid was the one who really ran the household. My mother intervened only where necessary.
There was a large plant and a cabinet around the corner from my mother's study, so I tiptoed towards the plant and positioned myself, such that I was near the door, but hidden behind the cabinet. This way I could eavesdrop on their conversation without being seen, and if needed, peer into the room. But I was content just to listen in for now.
"I am here,
memsaab
." Rashida walked into my mother's study and placed the tea on the desk where my mom was seated at. "Here's your tea. Will you be going out later,
memsaab
?"
"Yes, I just have to read through certain documents before I meet with the company's lawyer and go to their office. I will be leaving in about half an hour to forty minutes."
"Is there anything I can get for you,
memsaab
?" Rashida asked. "Some biscuits? A sandwich?"
"Rashida." I heard my mother curtly reply, as she took a sip of tea. "Please take a seat."
"Yes,
memsaab
."
...
Please take a seat
...
There was no sound of a chair being pulled, because of course Rashida did not pull up a chair, even though she was asked to "take a seat". In my mother's presence, Rashida could never sit on a chair, but on the floor.
Those who are not Indians may not get it, but there is a big class structure at play in our country. My mother is the wife of the owner of the house, and as such she was the mistress of the house, while Rashida was a mere maid servant employed here. When asked to take a seat in my mother's presence, Rashida did what any other maid servant in the country would do. She adjusted her sari around her big body and sat down on the floor.
The title Rashida used to address my mother -
memsaab
- should tell you about the class structure in India. When the British used to rule India, they would often have a governor or some senior army officer to rule a particular area. That person would have the title of
sahib
. His wife would be called
memsahib
or
memsaab
, and she would have a huge team of poor Indian servants and attendants tending to her round the clock. The
memsaab
often ruled by the whip, and her word was the law in the house. The Indian servants were there to do her every bidding and remain a part of the background. That was the class structure the British had instituted in India.
When the British left, the white colonial
memsaab
had gone, but new Indian
memsaab
s took their place. Over time, this class structure became firmly engrained in society, along with certain practices.
If you are a servant, you are treated as a lesser human being. You do not sit at the same level as your employer. If your master or mistress is seated on a chair, you sit on the floor. If they are eating at the dining table, you wait but do not eat at the same table. Servants usually ate in the kitchen, or later when the masters had finished dining.
If you are a servant and your master is speaking, you stay silent until spoken to. In their presence, do not stare at their face but keep your glance respectfully at the floor. Look up only when you have to speak, and even then, do it respectfully. Many servants even lived apart - for example ours is a former colonial house. This is why in our house we had a whole separate servants' quarter with their own bathrooms.
My father, to his credit, despite being a businessman, a member of the ruling political party, and from the rich upper class of society, did not really care for such traditions. In his presence, he hated it when Rashida would sit down on the floor. Ironically my mother, who is usually progressive when it came to women's issues, was more traditional in this aspect.
"Everyone should know their place in society," Ma would always say. "It's there for a good reason. Get educated, work harder, and uplift yourself. Otherwise, you can sit on the floor. It's your place in society."
She and my father would often argue on this, and my mother would win.
"You are asking me why SHOULD the maids sit on the chair?!" She would be incredulous. "They are
servants
. They KNOW where they should sit. On the floor!"
To my utter surprise, even Rashida and the other maids agreed with this type of thinking. So ingrained was this class structure drilled into their heads that whenever I would bring up the topic of my love for Rashida, she would categorically dismiss it with nary a second thought.
"But I really love you,
bua
." I would profess my love earnestly. "I don't care what society says, I really want to spend my life with you. I want to marry you."
Sometimes Rashida would even punish me for merely suggesting that we marry each other.
"No,
baba
." Rashida would remind me, twisting my ear. "You are from a rich Urdu speaking family of Kolkata. Look at your parents! You belong to the upper class of society. I am a mere Bengali servant woman,
baba
."
"But I don't care about that,
bua
