Whenever I visit my brother and sister-in-law’s house, I am received by their domestic help, Ashok, with warmth that touches my heart. The ever-smiling young man is not partial towards me. He is equally cordial with whoever goes to their place.

Ashok has been serving the family for several years with sincerity that is rarely found in domestic help like him. I was struck by the fact that the man decides what the family members should eat and what they should not. He virtually manages the budget and has full freedom to spend as he likes.

Akin to the CCTV, this man keeps a watchful eye on people loitering in the vicinity of the house or those coming to the rented portion of the house. Ashok, who came as a boy and graduated to manhood while working for this family is equally adored by the neighbours.

He reminds me of Birja, who served our family the same way since I was a small boy. I have vivid memories of him as he spent almost his entire life as a domestic help in our large family in Aligarh, Uttar Pradesh. I don’t know when exactly Birja joined our family but I was told that he came in the prime of his youth and went back home as an old man. Perhaps he might have continued but for asthma which had incapacitated him. The ancient practice of hiring such domestic help continues even today in many homes. They come and go but Birja was different.

I was told that he was employed by my grandfather to work for the family that included my grandmother, her two sons, their spouses and children. At one time, there were 16 members in our house. Adding Birja who was part of the household for all practical purposes, the number would be 17.

While my grandfather, uncle (a doctor) and my father would go out for work, Birja used to hold the fort on his own. He was older than my father and played a major role in organising my father’s marriage. It is well known that in India, marriages are a lavish affair.

With an immaculate record, Birja held a special status. He was a fatherly figure to my parents and by that reckoning, a grandfatherly figure for the kids, including me. We could never address him by his name. He was ‘Baba’(term of respect) or “Birja Ba’ in short for us.

Like our grandfather and grandmother, he used to address my aunt and my mother as ‘Badi Bahu’ and ‘Chhoti Bahu’ (big and small daughters-in law). Even our grandmother never called him out by his name; so much was the respect for him. I remember my aunt and my mother quickly pulling their saris over their heads in front of Birja. He had full authority to spank or slap us for doing anything wrong though he never exercised that special authority. Nevertheless, we feared his punishment.

Birja enjoyed his siesta in a room given to him. Before coming out, he would fake a cough to announce his arrival to the two daughters-in-law who would promptly pull down their veils as a mark of respect. Guests and casual visitors adored him in the same way.

Daily exercise

My grandma had left it to Birja to decide the daily menu. We consumed the vegetables that he chose for us and brought home from the market. Seated on the ground, Birja would give our grandmother sitting opposite a detailed account of the purchase. I used to watch this daily exercise with interest. ‘This gourd for one ‘anna’ (old Indian currency), aubergine for 1.5 annas, ladyfingers for two annas’, and the like. Birja had become an epitome of selflessness, utmost loyalty and undiluted devotion to the master of the house that placed him on a footing that was different from people of his tribe. After our grandfather’s demise, Birja appeared a bit morose. His health started deteriorating. He got asthma.

Birja had served for several decades but he did not remember the number of years. One morning, while gasping for breath, he told my grandma that it was now time for him to go back home to his children in the village. That brought tears in the eyes of all. Next day, the entire family bid him a tearful farewell with a woollen shawl as a memento. My father escorted Birja to his village some 20km away. As my father was leaving Birja’s house, he bid him farewell from the cot he was lying on. Both exchanged final glances clouded by tears.

A few days later, a messenger from the village came to inform our family that ‘Birja Baba’ had died. That brought to an end a glorious era of a rare, sweet relationship.

Lalit Raizada is a journalist based in India.