Kishore Singh: When respect means DIY

When among the richest citizens in a city offer to make you a cup of tea, you cannot but feel humbled, especially since it's something my wife does not "respect" - an American term I've become accustomed to. If I'm late for an appointment, I don't respect that person's time; if I hope someone else will clean and carry my used coffee cup from the office desk to the pantry for washing up, I don't respect their position. "You don't respect what I do for you," I told my wife recently, wondering what she'd say in her defence. "It's true," my wife concurred, "I don't respect you." With that attitude, I do not think she would have much future in America.

When my hosts in Chicago invited me home for tea and dessert following a charming meal in an Italian bistro, it was no surprise that they undertook to fetch and carry for themselves in an apartment close to where Ludwig Mies van der Rohe, the architect who built several iconic modern buildings, lived. Chandeliers sparkled in their home, showing off their fabulous collection of art, books, furniture, carpets and silver, but there was no one to do any jee hazoori. After I'd oohed and aahed over the fabulous tea, they quietly removed the remains without thought or fuss. When I explained as much to my wife over the phone, she sniffed, "What's the point of having so much money if you have to wash your own dishes?"

At home, our two cooks can't make up their mind about whose turn it is to do the dishes, so they sit in piles till my wife ticks them off, resulting in a clanging of pots and breaking of plates, something that is so routine that the purchase of china and glassware is part of our monthly household expenses. But I was delighted to hear my wife tell the staff recently: "When you do not complete your work, it shows that you do not respect me." There's hope for her, yet.

A few days before my Chicago visit, I'd had a similar experience in San Jose, where some of the wealthiest and most entrepreneurial people on the planet have sprawling homes. We'd gatecrashed a couple's Frank Lloyd Wright house following a party, and now the group wanted a drink, and most were still hungry enough for ghar ka khana. Both were in plenty, but you had to pour your own alcohol, and find, heat and serve your own dinner, before running the dirty plates in the dishwasher. It was an impeccably kept house, but one had the feeling of being in a bachelor's pad without any "Chotu" at hand.

"There was no one at all to serve or clean up," my wife asked in surprise. "Nope," I assured her, "and the hosts were friendly but made sure we tended to ourselves without imposing too much on them." "Maybe there is something to this American thing after all," my wife conceded, after I'd explained how even the richest coped on their own.

But I didn't realise why she was making this concession to an alien lifestyle till I was back at home, and heard her tell my mother: "You must come and spend time with your son and grandchildren, but you must look after your own selves without expecting any help from us, because that is the only way I will know that you respect me." As I write this, my parents have respectfully declined the offer to visit.