Minutes after a typical Hindu housewarming ceremony in our Thai home my wife had embarked on her cleanup chores. Those were my years in polluted Bangkok, a city that keeps its inhabitants preoccupied with construction dust and traffic grime it breathes into the households all day. Our condominium overlooked the nemesis of the growing high-rises by the musty Sukhumvit Road. My wife figured that since most of her waking hours were spent in mopping floors and dusting furniture, she might as well put somebody on the job.

As can be expected, such a city thrived with maids whose services were in eternal demand. After a month’s tireless quest, we found her. Noi would saunter in with a casual air an hour after her “estimated time of arrival”, and depart for her quarters a full hour before her “estimated time of departure”. Unfortunately, the dishes continued to gleam with greasy stains, the shirts and pajamas looking as unwashed as ever. Minutes after her quarterly appraisal, she was nowhere to be seen.

Lek, shuffled in one fine summer morning with an air of professed self-confidence. The first two were the golden days of her performance. The floor shone with the glow of a double-sweep executed on the hardwood surface. Everything seemed to be just fine, except that within a week, Lek had vanished beyond our reach, with my wallet in tow. I think the paper fuel would have lasted full three months of her salary numbers.

Poo was a seasoned veteran to the demands of a Bangkok lifestyle. A smattering knowledge of Hindi and a flair for making idli and sambhar placed her beyond the reach of a three-digit pay. Twenty-five per cent of her basic salary was to be paid as an advance each month. She needed a month off each year with the added perk of a fortnight’s paid kick-off to her village in far-away Chiang Mai. A request for her family to invade our home at their will to watch Thai TV was also granted. Alas, despite these exacting demands, Poo just wasn’t able to resist a more lucrative offer a few blocks away.

That was it for the next few years in Thailand. Sans housemaids, my wife and I spent most of our later evenings setting the house in order. We had come to realise the inevitable truth eulogised by the badshahs of Bollywood that romance often begins by a splashing waterfall — and always ends over a leaky sink.