Amy of the Iyers

I knew it.

I knew how she felt. Overweight, bland and well past her prime. Definitely not a pretty sight to behold. I pitied her sometimes, then immediately chided myself for giving in to that abominable emotion, even if it seemed quite warranted under the circumstances.

Miss Amy, for that was her name, had been with the Iyers for as long as I can remember. I first met the Iyers when they had just shifted to my city, about two decades back, from Bangalore where Mr. Iyer owned a small firm manufacturing custom built electronic circuits. Apparently, he'd made a sizeable fortune when he'd sold off his baby to a much larger concern that specialised in making money out of such takeovers. The Iyers had moved to Bombay and Miss Amy had come with them. Or, at least, that is how I remember the facts to be.

Mr. Iyer was a small, wiry man, full of energy and an inexhaustible treasure trove of knowledge when it came to matters concerning his line of work. That's not to imply that he was less informed about other things, just that his was a one-track mind dedicated, almost entirely, to his work. Mrs. Iyer was the perfect foil. Small, like her husband, but an altogether different person. Comely of appearance, amiable, talkative, sometimes frivolous, but always a very likeable woman indeed. The Iyers had but one son, Suresh. A moody, cranky little child with a propensity to moisten his seat every few erratic minutes. A kid who's company I didn't quite come around to enjoying until he was much older.

And then there was Miss Amy. I've never known her last name; in fact I'm not quite sure that she even has one.

Amy was large and buxom. Even in her prime she was certainly not cut to a model's fashion size. Large boned, I think, would be the politically correct term to describe Miss Amy. A high shoulder line, wide flanks, large mouth and two perfectly round eyes that peered from behind a pair of slightly chipped and foggy lenses. And a very tall stance that she used to really good effect when dealing with others of her kind. She wasn't pretty, not by a mile. But she had a certain air of solid dependability that was quite endearing. She was also gifted with a sense of tolerant affection for the Iyers and their idiosyncrasies and that of other people she came in touch with, through the Iyers. Yes, it was difficult not to grow to love Miss Amy if you had the opportunity to get to know her.

She was Mr. Iyer's right hand, so to speak. The ambassador of the family, if you like. She was always at their beck and call, whether the lady of the house needed someone to go shopping with her or Suresh needed picking up from school early for some reason. She was there at the airport if Mr. Iyer had important business guests coming over. And she was there if Mrs. Iyers second cousin, who was visiting with her family, needed someone to take them around Bombay and acquaint them with the sights and the sounds that make the city so alluring to casual tourists. In short, Miss Amy was quite indispensable to the Iyers. And she, for her part, was quite happy to be that way. All year round, at any time of the day or night, Miss Amy was always available.

But Amy wasn't omnipotent. She had her Achilles' Heal, Oh! Yes, just like everyone else. You see, Miss Amy hated the monsoons. She loathed the time of the year that the skies would open up, with all her heart and soul (Yes, it's not unlikely to imagine her having one). She despised the waterlogged streets. She abhorred the slush and muck, and the stench pit that Bombay is during the rains. But her pet peeve was the horde of nameless, homeless children that would take to the flooded city streets to wallow in the singular fun of a most decidedly awkward game of street football. At these times Miss Amy would withdraw into a little shell of her own. She would be moody and cranky and quite inconsolable. It often seemed that she regarded the monsoons as nature's cruel joke on her. She would hack and cough and splutter during her errands and for those four or five months of the year the Iyers would have to treat her with kid-gloved hands. And I think Amy basked in all that attention. Though, from the look of it, her discomfort seemed quite genuine, I think she permitted herself a quiet, indulgent smile in the heart of her hearts, from time to time, when Mr. Iyer spoke to her kindly, if no one was looking, in an attempt to lift her spirits a bit or when Mrs. Iyer would go shopping alone in respectful deference to her under-the-weather mood.

All said, the Iyers had always seemed like the perfect household.

And then, about 8 months back, something happened that turned the Iyer household upside down and reduced Amy to the state we find her in today. I still remember the day like it was yesterday. It started out like a perfectly normal July day in Bombay. Slightly overcast and muggy, not the most perfect of days, but a perfectly normal day nonetheless. Mr. Iyer was at work, having left early in the morning as was his custom. Mrs. Iyer was at a neighbour's enjoying a kitty party with some of the women in the locality. And Miss Amy was moping around in the Iyer's garage having made an early morning sortie to the airport, on this abominably muggy day, to drop off Suresh, now all of twenty two, who was on his way to the Gulf to take up a new job that had just come his way. The rain, that had started as a lazy drizzle around mid-morning, had turned into a veritable downpour by a quarter to three. The sun had all but disappeared behind the clouds, giving Amy fresh cause to hurl silent derogatories at the powers that be for having created something as redundant as the monsoons.

Just as the clock approached the hour, Amy thought she heard voices in the distance. It sounded like someone was in distress, but Amy was in no mood to investigate the matter. Soon however, she realised that the voices were getting closer, and for a moment even thought that she could recognise one or two of them. Her curiosity was aroused. She was deciding whether she should be venturing out to investigate when she saw them. The distressed voices. Or rather, the panicky people responsible for the distressed voices. There was Mrs. Ahuja, with her ample bulk, her bosom heaving to a frantic rhythm as she panted from the effort of having to run and scream at the same time. There was the lithe and lissome Shalini, who even in her time of panic, looked to be traipsing along, at least when compared to the obviously out-of-shape Mrs. Ahuja. There were five or six other women as well, all in various states of panic, all shrieking like banshees and most importantly, all who were, at this moment, supposed to be at the party with Mrs. Iyer. And they were heading straight for Miss Amy.

The horde burst upon Miss Amy in a cacophony of confused and tangled voices, and while neither was addressed directly to her, Amy surmised that something terrible had happened. Apparently, Mrs. Iyer had had a stroke and the desperate women, after trying to contact Mr. Iyer at work and failing, had decided to press Miss Amy into service. For the briefest of moments, as Amy confided in me later, the thought of having to go outdoors on a day like this sent a convulsive shudder through her body. But this was a life and death situation, after all, and not a time to worry about trivialities like the weather. So Amy took the task upon herself, quite willingly I may add, and set off for the hospital with Mrs. Iyers limp form and the corpulent and sweaty Mrs. Ahuja in command.

The rest of the afternoon and evening passed by in a blur, as Amy found herself running from hospital to diagnostic center to chemist shop, with this person or the other, in driving rain through waterlogged streets trying to focus on getting the work done. Trying her best to shun the horrible thought of breaking down from fatigue, at a time like this, from her distraught mind. But she managed. Broken of body and fatigued of mind, she'd held off against the odds until 8pm, when Mr. Iyer arrived. The hospital had finally managed to get a call through to his office and he'd rushed there as fast as the traffic would allow.

In a couple of days Mrs. Iyer was back home, recuperating, but in all the commotion no one had given a thought to poor Miss Amy. Her personal adventure, insignificant though it may have been in comparison to Mrs. Iyer's life threatening ordeal, had dealt her a debilitating blow. Her ageing body, racked with pains, had all but given up and just rousing herself in the morning to greet the new day seemed like too much of an effort. She nursed herself quietly into a shell that, eventually, she refused to come out of. She felt old. Really old. And helpless. And hopeless.

Months passed and Amy still moped. The well oiled machine that was the Iyer household was thrown into disarray, what with the right hand out of action. Mr. Iyer tried to talk Amy out of her depression. Mrs. Iyer, for her part, called in all the specialists she could muster. I, for one, could think of nothing more useful to do than stand at the sidelines and watch the sorry affair. But the prognosis looked grim indeed. Amy had reached the end of the line. The bastion of the Iyer household was now nothing more than a shadow of her former self. The Iyers tried to go about life normally, but without Amy they were like a bunch of paddle-boaters thrown together in a sailboat. Things had come to a head and something was bound to give, eventually.

And give it did! Late one night the Iyers were roused by the frantic ringing of the telephone. Suresh was calling to say he was coming to visit, and as a special gift for his father he was bringing in a brand new right hand for the family. A few days later Suresh arrived in person, and in tow was a gorgeous young thing all dressed in red. His gift to his father. She was obviously prettier than Amy. An angular face, well toned body, pert lips and sharp, piercing eyes. And the gorgeous, gorgeous red! And a better performer too, when push came to shove, according to Suresh. Everyone was enamoured by the new arrival, and I must admit, for a while, so was I. And amidst the entire hullabaloo Miss Amy kept getting miserabler and miserabler.

But the writing, as they say, was on the wall. Miss Amy had served the family well, and now it was time for her to go. I shed a quiet tear for old Amy. I had become quite fond of the girl over the years. For the Iyer household though, the days of the Ambassador were over. The men from the garage had already been asked to come pick her up; there was a new Honda in the house now!