It is 1:15 pm and I feel battered, coated and deep-fried. Zahooran, my maid, has refrained from dropping by for her daily visit for the third day in a row, and I can no longer ignore the house work. These are the times when I realise (with greater intensity) just how much work it is to keep a house clean and dust-free.
I am grateful to Zahooran for being so kind as to clean my house for a mere 3500 rupees a month, really I am, but it is only when she doesn’t show up, that I also realise her excellence at, quite literally, sweeping things under the carpet. I bubbled with a mild form of rage as I went about the house and surveyed the oodles of dust bunnies which had been merrily collecting behind various pieces of furniture for months. Arming myself with jharoos and brushes and dust cloths, I set to work with fiend-like determination.
15 minutes later, the house is hazy with the dust that has been stirred from weeks of dormancy, and my allergies have abandoned their loyalties to the cat. I sneeze and cough as my lungs fight for oxygen while Huz tuts mildly from his desk and asks why on earth I’m bent on torturing myself; but since I am, I should do it without complaining too loudly as he gets disturbed.
So far, I have cleaned the neglected stuff (sweeping and mopping behind the fridge and tv trolley) as well as the usual stuff, and am no longer surprised at Zahooran’s negligence. I’d probably do the same if I were her. 🙂