ONE bleak December morning I found her on my doorstep offering unsolicited services as a cook. She was draped in a black nylon saree with a scarlet pattern. To add pizzazz to the ensemble she wore a black sweater with a generous smattering of sequins and crimson nail-paint on her cracked work-worn hands.

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I looked askance at her weather-beaten face reminiscent of the witches in 'Macbeth'. At my cold reception, she shuffled out of the gate with a woebegone look which I promptly consigned to the edges of my memory. But we were destined to meet again.

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As luck would have it, my regular maid abandoned me. In a moment of surreal madness I decided to turn 'chef'. After all I could cook with greater panache than an illiterate maid. And I did, for all of three days. After that I started calling up friends and foes pleading for a maid. As my desperation spiralled, I began to stop any maid-look-alike on the road and enquire about her cooking skills. That earned me plenty of quelling looks but who cared. And then, like a magician, my brain conjured up the image of 'Meena'. Yes that was her name. I shuddered at the recollection but with unseemly haste sent out a missive for Meena.

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That was how Meena came to work for me. Her cooking skills were rudimentary but her eating skills were not. She would beadily monitor our portions. She would insist I cook so she could learn by example. This of course seemed to be taking an inordinately long time. 'I am a vegetarian', she indignantly retorted when I asked her to stack eggs. But when we ordered in chicken soup one day she demanded her portion. I decided not to indulge her.

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The next day I woke up to a household in chaos. There was no bed tea. A putrid smell hung in the air as the garbage had not been disposed. The morning newspapers had mysteriously disappeared. The fruit in the fridge had shrunk to an alarming low. The cause: Meena was in a state of extreme fatigue sans chicken soup. My muted scolding and vociferous pleas fell on deaf ears. She would not budge from the bed where she had taken up permanent residence. At the end of my tether, I ordered in chicken soup for her. She slurped the soup ecstatically. And then, she made a miraculous recovery. She was up and about in the blink of an eye and in minutes had cleared the kitchen debris.

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Before I could say 'Jack Robinson', she had prepared a delicious meal and a dessert of kheer. I was astounded. A bowl of chicken soup had worked wonders on her cooking skills and given her a blissful countenance. Unwittingly, I seemed to have hit upon the 'Meena-mantra'. So whenever guests drop by, I order in chicken soup for Meena first. Hey, this is no bribe. It is simply 'chicken soup' for the maid's soul.n 

Published in The Tribune