Chotu Ki Kahani (Story of a Child Domestic Servant)

“What else is new, Didi” I asked my sister when I called her from the United States.

 “Chotu died in a bus accident last week,” my sister told me perfunctorily.

Choking with emotion I could not continue the conversation as Chotu’s innocent face flashed before my eyes. I remembered my last stay in India when he had polished my shoes almost every day, dusting them with a rag, applying and spreading shoe polish with his fingers, shining the shoe with side to side and front to back strokes of first a brush and then a rug, putting white cream and brushing top, sides and heel again and finally putting a few drops of water and shining the shoes with side to side strokes of a rag held tightly against the shoes and handing them to me with a flourish after cleaning the sole.  He even wanted to put them on my feet and tie shoelaces but it was beyond my American sensibilities to accept such obsequiousness from another person, let alone a child.  

“Bete where did you learn shoe polishing,” I asked him.

“Bauji, I used to go the railway station with a bunch of kids from the jhoper patti (shanty town) to polish for Bhaiji, a dada (don) at the railway station. I got two rupees out of ten for one polish, while Moti, our leader from the jhoper patti and Bhaiji took the rest. One day there was a scramble for money when a gora (white man) gave us a ten rupees bakshsish; the police came after the ruckus and beat us. Next day my father took me to the Behnji from a school who used to come to the jhoper patti to tell us to go to the school.”

I did not know his real name for many years and wondered if he had any. Everyone in the joint family called him Chotu. Chotu’s uncle worked on a construction site near my brother– in-law’s factory. He gladly offered Chotu when he heard that my brother-in-law was looking for a servant. Chotu was perhaps ten-year-old when I first saw him.  Gaunt faced, lean, swarthy, frozen with anxiety and fear, dressed in a tattered shirt and pajama with a few rags rolled under his arm pits and head buried in his chest, he sat on his haunches on the floor of my sister’s mother-in-law’s bedroom. 

“What work can you do?” my sister’s mother-in-law asked him.

“Everything, Mataji” he mumbled softly.

“Don’t you have a tongue,” the old lay screamed?”

“Everything,” my sister’s mother-in-law said cynically, “do not lie to me, this little baby who has not even left his mother breast can do everything. How old is he?”

“Mataji he looks small but he is ten years old. He can dust, broom, sweep and mop, polish shoes and fold clothes. He would do any other errand you will ask him to do,” his father came to his rescue as Chotu choked with fear after the old lady’s growl.

“Has he ever been to a school?” my sister’s mother-in-law asked his father.

“Mataji, I sent him to a school, but he did not have any place to complete his homework. We do not have light in the jhoper patti.  I and his mother don’t know how to read and write and couldn’t help him. One day he went to the dhaba (roadside eatery) to read and the owner threw him out saying that his dhaba was not his father’s or municipality’s property.  I had to pull him out when his teacher spanked him for destroying the books given by the school.   Actually the books were drenched when rain broke the roof of my jhoper (hut). He was learning little and was being insulted and spanked by the teacher while other children of the jhoper patti were flying kites with their own money. He lost interest. Mataji, studying is not in our destiny,” his father said.

I was cynical about father’s story.  All his boys were in servitude.

“This is what happens when crow tries to walk like a swan,” my sister’s mother-in-law remarked.

No one asked his name.

I wondered if going to school really mattered to him. Like many other children of poverty he was starting his career as a chotu and would grow up to become an adult still working as a chotu and finally would bequeath his chotudum to his children. Formal education was not necessary for this career.

Chotu was born in a hut in a shanty near Raj Nagar, Ghaziabad. He was the fifth child of his parents. His two older brothers died during an epidemic of cholera. Shanti, his mother, worked as a day laborer on the same construction site where his father worked, carrying bricks on her head when she was pregnant with him.  They had migrated from Bihar a few years ago. His father talked nostalgically but bitterly about his village, nostalgic about his parents and relatives but bitterly about how the police, goondas and councilors treated them.  He often said that they will go back when he will have enough savings and conditions will be better in their village. 

There was no celebration when Chotu was born. His father was at work. His mother asked Bhullan, his older brother, to call the dai , an old lady from the jhoper patti who helped women in childbirth. Shanti started working a few days after he was born, taking him to sleep in a makeshift hammock at the construction site, while she carried the bricks on her head. His days were spent in the hammock under the sun, and nights on the floor mat in the hut.

“Where has this fucker brought me,” he often heard his mother curse his father, while she cooked food in the jhoper. They had arguments, even shoving and pushing when he came home walking wobbly and started cursing and hitting the children.  The children would huddle together crying while the parents withdrew behind the dhoti, a makeshift cloth wall in the one-roomed hut.

Chotu’s work began immediately after the initial interview when my sister’s mother-in-law ordered him to make a cup of tea.  A cup of tea was an elixir of life for her and no servant was good enough for her until he could offer her that as soon as she opened her mouth which she did quite often when it came to servants. Servants should be chastised periodically lest they get spoiled, was her motto.

He rose quickly and accompanied my sister to the kitchen. But my sister made him wash his hands and explained to him how to make tea. While he handed tea to the old woman my sister went to get him a “new” set of clothes, a discarded shirt and short of her son. As he was changing, my sister’s mother-in-law demanded more milk, “donkey does not even know how to make tea,” at which he darted back to the kitchen with his half worn short slipping down. But my sister, a kinder woman, handed the milk pot to her mother-in-law while he pulled his pants up. Having quick reflexes augured well for his career.

He was a quick study and soon settled in the house carrying out everyone’s commands from sister’s ten year old son to her seventy-year-old mother-in-law. My sister was generous to him with food and clothes, both new and left over both of which he relished. He gained some weight and his cheeks filled up.  In the evening when everyone watched TV, he sat on his haunches on the living room floor and watched too, intermittently getting up to fulfill others commands. He even learned diplomacy to request my sisters’ children to let him watch till the ads came before he carried out their commands. Occasionally my brother in law would yell, “Abe! Do we pay you to watch TV the whole day? Do some work, son of a pig.”

“Let the kid watch a little TV, there is no work at present,” My sister would admonish her husband. 

I wondered if yelling, cursing or even some spanking fazed him for he would just hide his face, run and do what he was asked to do- no protests, no expression of resentment or hurt. Rarely did I see a tear in his eyes. Sometimes he would hum a Bollywood song soon after he had been yelled at and after doing what he was asked to do or not to do he would again sit glued to the TV if a Hindi movie was on, especially if Amitabh Bacchan was the hero. Thickening the skin is an essential skill of chotu trade. He slept well and often my sister had to call his name many times to wake him up.

Or for him it was the best of all worlds, a roof that did not leak, a floor that was not water-logged, and a durrie (cheap Indian rug) to sleep on and a blanket to cover, a TV to watch, and even left over puries and sweetmeats. He was better off than Bhullan, his brother who worked at the grocery store from 6 AM until 10 PM, grinding spices and carrying loads for customers and the Lala (trader) without any TV or radio, and often berated and even beaten by the Lala and some customers. And then went back at night to sleep in the hut to be cursed at and hit by his alcoholic father. But Bhullan had the satisfaction of living with his mother and his sister and play with Moti. Bhullan and Moti played with dhibris (discarded bottle caps, making a hole in the ground and aiming to throw the cap in the hole. Sometimes they mimicked curse words they heard from adults say and laughed. Moti even smoked left over cigarette stubs and puffed smoke through his nose like the Lala.

Chotu wondered why his older sister did not work at someone’s house. She sometimes accompanied her mother to work but never alone. Bhullan had told him that girls who are sent to work as live-ins sometimes became bad girls. He did not understand what he meant by becoming bad but sensed that it was something really bad and never asked about it again.

Chotu lived his life vicariously, watching other kids in the house wistfully as they went to the school, played, celebrated birthdays and festivals, sister tying Rakhi and the brother giving her money. He stood close by with a gaping mouth ready to carry out any errand, sometimes being admonished, saale kya dekh raha hai, jaa kaam kar. He saw the father give hugs and kisses to his children and the mother dressing them and combing their hair.  He would carry the heavy book bag of my sister’s son to the car. Sometimes he would even peep into the book bag at which my sister’s son would remark, “saale what are you looking at. You wouldn’t understand a thing, first learn to read.” He was excited on birthdays as if they were his own. He would find some excuse to hang around and wait to get a crumb of cake. He hated it if he had to stay in kitchen helping (mais) maid servants during the birthdays; but sometimes he didn’t have a choice.

I can’t guess what he felt, thought, wished or dreamed.   Did he wish he had a birthday party too, did he wish to be with his family for his Munia to tie Rakhi to him? Perhaps he dreamt to be like Munna baby, to be readied for school by his mama, wearing the navy blue school jersey and white pants and donning a blue tie, served breakfast and then dropped in the car to the school. Or to be a superman like Amitabh Bacchan?  Or perhaps he didn’t because chotus from jhoper can’t dream; dreams are for those who can achieve them, not for those who cannot. Didn’t mataji say that a crow will suffer if he walked like a swan?

Luckily no one was cruel or mean to him. He was well fed, well dressed and not overworked. Over the years became self conscious about how he looked. When alone or with other servants he mimicked “happy birthday to you” and laughed. Sometimes he would swing his arms like Sunil Gavaskar hitting a sixer. At others he repeated Bollywood movies’ dialogues. Once in a while he would imitate the swagger of villain or  hero. 

TV has opened a whole range of possibilities for everyone, a panoramic vista as long as they can access the screen. One can choose his/her goals and role models. One can visit the fantasy land and weave his dreams – or choose and pick dreams already woven. One can even ride on the rich men poor men romances, the staple of Bollywood for many years.  Putting wings to the soaring desire and aspiration is another matter. Bollywood, nor the soap operas, provide wings to the soaring desires. The latter have almost excluded the poor from their storylines or show them as imbecile comic characters. Rarely one sees stories in which short of villainy, wizardry and providential help an actor achieves vertical movement instead of the traditional ways of education and legitimate enterprise.

In phagun (beginning of spring) he went home. His father came to pick him up. He was very excited because he had many things to brag about to them. He saved a few rupees to buy bindis and bangles for his mother. His father told him that he was taking him to Madipur instead of instead of Raj Nagar. Their hut had been bulldozed by the municipality and they had been forcibly moved to Madipur on the outskirts of Delhi. He felt sad because he liked Raj Nagar. Raj Nagar was abuzz with activity, children playing cricket, old people laughing together in the parks, marriage bands blasting music, TV shops where one could catch a glimpse of Shah Rukh Khan or Madhuri Dixit or of a cricket match. And the bustle of the vegetable market! With vegetables and fruits of so many colors spread on the floor and hucksters calling the buyers, one kilo fresh apples for 100 rupees; a dozen bananas for fifty rupees. Once in a while when Bhullan worked at a vegetable stall he gave a banana for free to him.

Madipur was not an unplanned jopper patti but one-room brick tenements allotted by the Municipality to everyone. No more dripping roof, no more soggy mud floor. But it was a lonely place, far away from the houses of the sahibs and the noises and lights of the city. His father had to take a bus to work. Bhullan lost his job with the lala. The municipality opened a school in the basti where Bhullan went one day but he was ashamed not to be able to read while children much younger than him could read and even write. He would need a miracle to be able to read and write. He couldn’t catch up, and lost interest. He could do many other things, such as open a tea stall or sell fruits in the sabzi market or drive a scooter. What he needed was money, not education.

It was dark by the time they reached Madipur. Bhullan appeared very skinny and gaunt. His mother was pregnant again. She looked so frail and tired as compared to the women in the other house. Munni’s nose was dripping as usual and her hair unkempt and matted.

Soon after he settled his father asked, “How much money you have brought home." Chotu gave all his savings to him. “Behnji has given a few clothes for mother too,” He said. 

“Only forty rupees! Abe saale, what happened to the rest." His father went out angrily to buy his tharra, (home-brewed liquor) and came back drunk as usual calling everyone, especially chotu, names. Trembling with fear Chotu withdrew, his knees and elbows folded  like a fetus with head buried on his knees,  in a corner of the brick room that they called home, pleading with his father not to beat him.

"I could not save more money, baba."

"Son of a pig, why did you squander the money? Are you son of a Seth that you bought a kite, bangles and ate chaat," he growled when Chotu gave him the account.

“Baba, all children were flying kites on the Independence Day,” he said timidly.

His father lashed out at him with punches and buffets.

“Saale you think you have become independent. They, the rich, have become independent, not we, the poor" he said.

When his mother intervened to protect Chotu, "our baby has come after a long time. Don't beat him," his father pushed her aside with a long swipe of his outstretched hand and threatened to hit her too. “Born of adultery, you spoil these brats," he cursed her.

Cringing with fear Bhullan lay on the floor with his head covered in the sheet. Munni started crying. Chotu sobbing and with tears rolling down his eyes, pulled down the lobules of both his ears and folded his hands seeking forgiveness. He wished he had not come ..... “Baba, I will be careful next time."

He returned to my sister’s house on Monday.

“Chotu take a bath scrubbing yourself well and change your clothes before you start working.” My sister-in-law wanted him to get rid of all the dirt and filth he might have accumulated in his jhoper. No one asked him how was his house, how his parents, brothers, sister were and what he did at home, or how he got the bruise on his face.  Many orders were ready for him.  He quickly fell into the old routine, getting up; getting ready for breakfast by setting the table, bringing the dishes, announcing to children in the house that breakfast was ready and then stand next to the table to take orders.

One day my sister noticed that he was too quiet. “Chotu, you are too quiet. Is something wrong?”My sister asked him, sensing that he was not his usual peppy self.” “Behnji, there is nothing,” he replied. “Go to sleep if you are not feeling well,”

“Why you are spoiling the brat,” my brother-in-law yelled immediately. “He is malingering, sala kaam chor ho gaya hai.”

 My sister felt his skin. He had fever. She gave him crocin and asked him to go upstairs. But before he went up he quickly removed the dishes from the table and cleaned it. 

Two years passed by. I Immigrated to the United States and returned to India four years later for a vacation. My wife brought my children’s discarded clothes for him and my daughter, thinking that he was still a young child, brought a few illustrated alphabet books and Crayola pencils and markers for him, but he had metamorphosed into a teenager with a silky moustache and a broken voice. He did not show much interest in an old discarded pair of my son’s Levy jeans which did not fit him well.  His hair was neatly parted and he donned a well-benefitting pair of pants and shirt. But he was still called Chotu. 

Even after four years he knew what we liked and disliked. “Sahib, should I shine your shoes? Sahib, should I bring a Hindi movie for you from the video store? Katrina Kaif is the heroine. Sahib, will you take tea?”He hung around us ever willing to please us. He was curious about America which he had seen on the TV in My Name is Khan, a Bollywood movie. “Sahib, is it true that every house in America has a garden like Mughal Garden?”

On day I asked him, “What is your name?”

“Ashok Kumar, Sahib.”  He replied coyly. He was surprised that anyone asked his name. “Do you know who Ashok Kumar was?” “He was a famous movie star of our times,” I told him.  He blushed. Since then I started calling him Ashok.

My teenage daughter, who was very vocal about child labor and his illiteracy, used his services the most.

“Chotu, did you keep shampoo in the bathroom? Did you iron my clothes?” she ordered him around.

She distributed pencils and alphabet books that she had brought for Chotu to younger Chotus of the neighborhood. My sister told me that many did not even look at them after she left, but kept them as trophies. Could they have looked at them without the ire of the employers like my brother in law? Could the Chotus get time and coaching that every middle class child gets from his or her parents since birth? Such isolated gestures of altruism (truly attempts to placate the conflicted, guilty and hurt egos of middleclass children who are exposed to liberal western reports) cannot make any difference unless a whole infrastructure is put in place to educate domestics with protected and mandated time in a day with formal schooling funded partly by the employers and partly by the state. Books alone are not enough. One needs teachers, and place and time to learn and practice. Outlawing child labor without supports will not achieve much, just as emancipation of slaves did little for them at least for one century.  Mandating employers to pay for this education may result in fewer jobs for domestics. The nouveau riche of Delhi are not willing to dismantle the system of Chotudom as yet - availability of cheap labor is the key of their luxury. 

Children of the rich in India do not think about these issues like the children of masters on the plantations. The servants are just different people, they do what any employee does, work for a wage. Age does not matter.  In fact some have a feeling of moral rectitude for protecting a poor child from the vagaries of slums, giving him a roof, clothes and good food. “Uncle, Isn’t he better off here than in his hut with no electricity and clean water,” my sister’s son would argue?”

My sister’s mother in law was very upset at all the attention that Chotu was getting. One day Chotu spilled a glass of milk that he was taking for her. She lashed out him with her can. “gadhe ka baccha. Sahib ban gaya hai.” My wife came to Chotu’ rescue, but my sister’s mother-in-law cautioned her, “Bahu! Never spoil the servant. Don’t bring your American values to India. One cannot trust a servant in Delhi.”

Chotu’s recollections occupied my mind for one day. After I regained my composure, I called my sister again to ask her what had happened.

She was surprised at my curiosity about the dead Chotu, because she was already in the process of hiring a new one.  “He was overrun by a DTC bus when he was crossing the street after buying pastry for breakfast.  You know that no one honors traffic lights in Delhi. We have given 5000 rupees to his father.”

 “Was the bus driver arrested? Are you suing the driver and DTC,” I asked.

“No, there is no need. It was the will of God, so be it” He, too, was always in a hurry, crisscrossing among moving cars never waiting for the traffic signal. The bus driver was arrested but released on bail. Vishal, Meenu auntie’ son, is engaged and marriage has been fixed for May 5^th.”  My sister changed the subject abruptly as if irritated by so much ado about Chotu.

“Didi, did you go to his funeral,” I persisted

“Talk of something else. How are your children?” she evaded the question again.

He lived in their house for over seven years. He had served them food, had cleaned their dishes, ironed their clothes, escorted their children to school, for seven years, but like a car that is totaled in an accident is forgotten and replaced he was forgotten and replaced.