Kishore Singh: A maid-in-India crisis

Vicky sighed. "It's the end of this world," he said, gesturing towards the heated basement pool around which we had perched ourselves in intimate groups, pecking on delicate hors d'oeuvres and twirling fluted glasses of champagne while somewhere above a table was being laid for dinner. We'd been included in the charmed circle to offer insights ahead of the swearing-in of a new government in the capital, but my wife appeared more interested in the food. "Scallops!," she squealed, "Oysters!" "Fresh from Thailand this morning," Sweety, our hostess, confirmed, "it's been a nightmare flying in supplies with the riots there."

Politics was proving difficult to avoid. All of the previous week, the fear of the mango people had the more privileged class in heebie-jeebies. Would the servants sign up as volunteers for the latest political party in town, leaving them to do their own dishes and clothes? Would they have to upgrade their domestic staff salaries to executive levels, to match those of the cleaning ladies in New York who drive up to clean and air other people's homes in expensive Porsches, and whose services the unfortunate Devyani Khobragade might have been better off availing than the desi housemaid she'd decided to export. Would the brats, lounging in their rooms and summoning the help to keep up an endless supply of mochas and lattes, have to fend for themselves? Were they all to join the cattle class? It was enough to freeze the bubbles in your Dom Perignon, this fear of the aam aadmi.

"We'll be running around like headless chickens," Sarla moaned - as well she might, she hadn't ever bothered to even lift a finger to summon the help to keep her wined and dined while in bed. The team of workers who managed her home and life now seemed vaguely threatening. Her husband had considered getting more security staff, but weren't they aam people too? Sarla and he discussed a raise in their salaries but had decided on an out-of-season bonus instead. Yet, just yesterday, she'd had to answer the door herself. Thank heavens it was just a courier, not the neighbourhood snoop who'd love spreading the word how much she'd come down in life. "We might as well shift to London," her friend Shanta, said, "if we have to manage our homes with just one cook and a handyman."

New Year parties at most friends' homes were being cancelled across the city. What if the new chief minister imposes sanctions," grumbled Bobby. "Party pooper," said Sarla, doing the impossible - pouring her friends a round of champagne for possibly the first time in her life instead of snapping her fingers to get the task done. Meera said her family had decided to recuse themselves from Delhi for a while till things settled down a bit and they felt secured returning from Dubai. "Our daughter doesn't like it there," she marvelled, "she's easily bored with the shopping." "Go easy on the spending, dear," her husband warned Meera, "the new dispensation might frown on it."

With the jitters among the advantaged obvious, Padma and crew were lacerating themselves about previous instances of bad behaviour with the staff. "Maybe I'll get the gardener's lad an Armani cardigan," Radhika mused. "Or Mozart chocolates," piped in her little one, "seeing how he's always filching mine from the bedside table." "Mark my words," wailed Sweety, "we'll all be doing dishes ourselves before the year is out - just like those awful People Like Them."