It is estimated that over 73% of India lives in it's villages. I can tell you why. They are no maid servants in the cities! Believe me, you have better chances of finding your lost soul in a metro than finding a maid.

There was a time when good women everywhere visited temples, mosques and churches to meet God and pray for their children's health, wealth and general well being. Once in a while, a rare one even got away asking for a better husband. But not anymore. Today mothers, daughters, and sisters in the city have only one request – only one prayer on their lips – “Oh! Creator of Mankind, Lord Almighty, Guardian of the Galaxy, please bless us with a maid. Save us from the plight of our daily grind.”

I guess the Maid Gods are avenging the injustice belted out to their flock in the past by the rich class. Or how do you explain this quirk of fate? Where once you played bourgeois master to the hilt, dragged those meek souls through multi-level interviews, subjected them to skill tests, lie-detector tests, pregnancy tests, demanded birth, death, family and reference certificates, only to finally, humiliate them with piddling pay and no benefits at all, today you are the one being asked for your career history, earning capacity, asset value, club membership details to eating habits and lineage by maids before they even consider employment with you. When the Bible said, 'the Meek shall inherit the Earth,' who would have thought it could be soon.

I, myself, have searched long and hard for this now almost extinct species. The first one I got to meet, thanks to my in-laws' good friends at all the right places, asked me if I or my wife had any contagious diseases that spread through air, water or food? Or a history of anything that spreads by close association.

If I didn't jump out of my skin, it is only because, recently I have been gaining a lot of weight. Forget jumping, my bulging middle refuses to even get up from it's seat without some really active screaming from my wife. So even when totally shocked and hurt by the insinuation, I assured her that we were not that kind of people at all. We were good God-fearing folks, and had high moral standards.

She refused to work, most politely I must say, till we could produce a letter for our 'clean' health status, certified by a reputed and qualified medical practitioner. If I was as smart as I think I am, I would have immediately got myself that damn certificate and hired her. But I didn't. Instead I told her, not so politely, that she should go and have her head checked! A great mistake, as the events that unfolded were to make me see.

The second one we got to meet, after three odd months of searching in vain, wanted to work flexi-hours. I felt proud that a daughter of the soil, a sister of mine, has widened her horizons and was walking with the times! She is aware of the work-life balance theory. But still, not one who likes to presume, I wanted to know what she really meant.

She said, she'd work from 9 to 10am on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays; 7pm to 8pm on Tuesdays and Thursdays; and 10 to 11am on Saturdays and Sundays. I was not really sure if that would fit into our scheme of things, so I asked her if we could negotiate. She refused, saying, “Can't do. That's when my favorite TV shows are on!”

I stood there dazed, totally taken aback by what she just told me. This ultra-aware sister of mine turned out to be totally scheming TV addict. Damn! But I realised she was good looking. And I found a good reason to give her a chance. Poor woman, she must be going through such abominable heart break without a TV at home, I felt. Especially these days when even the hawkers have 29” flat screen TVs perched in front of their wares to attract crowds. I know how I used to feel without a TV at home, when all the neighbourhood kids were busy watching Asian games back in 1983. Unloved and un-cared for by the world. Totally.

I connected immediately. My heart went out to the little dove of a woman standing in front of me, who just wanted to watch TV at my house. Not a crime in the eyes of a man who's besotted to beauty in all it's various forms, sizes and lip shades. But then, that is the curse of every man who owns a heart as generous and tender as mine. I dabbed my misty eyes with a tissue and spoke. My voice quivered with emotion as the words came out,“Sister, what kind of a man is your husband not to have bought you even a TV?”

“Oh! I'm not married!” She said shyly, her eyes down cast, as she drew, what looked like a pussy cat to me, on the ground with her right toe. “But my boyfriend has gifted me a TV! I watch it all the time.”

Angry and disappointed at the same time but not yet sure why, I asked, “Then why would you want to watch TV at my house?”

“Oh! Watching at home won't get me any money, will it?” She smiles sweetly. My sister of the soil is really moving with the times, I figured. If you can get paid for surfing and chatting in the cool comfort of air-conditioned rooms nowadays, why not make some money watching TV? Her logic seemed superlative. I made a hasty retreat, without forgetting to fling the wet tissue in the first garbage can I found.

For the next 4 months I spent my every waking hour going through newspaper classifieds, calling up home service providers, checking with neighbours, friends, and family, searching the net, and posting 'wanted' ads, but nothing happened. No maid came our way! All this while, my wife lent her support to my campaign by visiting the city temples, offering special poojas and hefty bribes to all celestial beings. Alas! No Maid Gods were pleased.

In the fifth month, Fatima appeared.

A rotund figure of 5 feet, dazzling in fake green silk saree, she stood before us, me and my wife, like a evil principal scrutinizing her erring pupil. Her eyes looked at me suspiciously from behind the large dollops of Cuticura powder that hung over her face. I smiled, gingerly, not sure what to say.

“Are you Sunni or Shia?” The very first question blew a fuse somewhere inside my mind.

I was not sure I heard it right, so I enquired, politely, “Sorry, m'am?”

She looked sternly, her eyes boring into my insides. I could feel the gaze perforate my skin, slice my flesh and inspect the organs for damage or contagious diseases.

“You Sunni or Shia?” She repeated, albeit a bit slowly, rolling out each word with great emphasis as if to a kid with learning problems or an adult with hearing difficulties.

I felt blood rush to my face. In the heat of the moment, I could have said something really stupid but for my sensible wife. As always, she stepped in and saved the day.

“Oh, no! We are not muslims. We are hindus.” She spoke in the most mellifluous voice I have ever heard in the three years of my marriage.

“Then why does he have that beard? Like a mullah (a muslim religious figure, if you are wondering)?” Fatima's gaze is unwavering, and does not leave me.

“That! well.. that's fashion. Just for style, you know.” My wife's tone is very reassuring. If she had told me that I could fly in that tone, I'd have no choice but to believe her. “But I don't like it either.” She added, looking at me with absolute displeasure.

Fatima seemed a little relaxed after that. I could sense an invisible bond being formed between the two women. Two hearts joined not by love but by their hate for my goatee. They have found a common enemy, I can see.

“Do you have children?” Fatima asked my wife now.

“No.” I jumped in, relieved to see that we were making some progress. Fatima avoided me completely! If she heard me, she didn't give any signs.

“Do you plan to have any in the near future?” She again asked my wife.

“Yes. We are planning for a kid.” My wife offered.

“1500 rupee for one child. No bargaining.”

I looked at my wife, lost. She looked at Fatima, perplexed. Apparently, Fatima's statement had left us both in the dark.

“One kid, increase salary by 1500 rupee. Two kids, 3000 rupee. Like that.” I can't say for sure but I did feel a tinge of sarcasm in Fatima's voice. Especially in the way she emphasized her, “Like that.” Obviously, she wasn't finding us very intelligent. But that was least of our problems.

Gruelling sessions of personal interviews, both together and alone, psychometric tests, group discussions and demands for an endless list of certificates proving everything from I and my wife exist to we can pay her adequately to our IQ and EQ, three long weeks later, Fatima finally gave her consent to be employed by us.

On the condition that we open a Citibank Suvidha Savings Account with ATM card facility for her. Provide a contingency fund, allow two days off every month, offer a Nokia mobile phone with Virgin connection (we foot the bills, of course!), an upkeep allowance every three months for her parlour visits. Till then, I was more or less, willing to agree. Even though, grudgingly. That was when she wanted to know if we'll be joining her on her 'Night Outs' or reimburse the bills later!

All I can tell you is, Fatima is still employed with us. And we are running out of restaurants to have dinner in the city. You see, she doesn't like to eat at the same place twice. And every time a waiter keeps another exotic dish before her, somebody that I don't see keeps whispering to me, “Justice has been served, my lord!” I wonder what that means.