Earlier this year, my mother spent a month with my eldest sister, leaving her home in the care of the driver-housekeeper couple who stayed in her outhouse and worked for her. They'd been with her for close to three years, and despite being absurdly young themselves, had managed to produce three children under the age of 6. The lady was incredibly pretty, a fresh faced 23-year-old from the village, innocent and unworldly. Her husband was much more gruff and given to staying out of home for long stretches but they were unfailingly kind to Mummy.
My mother was extremely good to them as well — when the lady had a hysterectomy, she was on paid leave for a whole two months, coming into the main house just to eat a breakfast of two eggs and a glass of milk, essentials for recovering from lack of a uterus in my mother's book. Mummy also part-paid the school fees of the kids and ensured that they had all the fuel needed to propel them to future greatness — a steady stream of stationery, decent underclothes, and a regular supply of cheese tins and custard powder. The kids paid for these freebies in sweat and tears, because Mummy appointed herself their tutor, philosopher and etiquette guide. They were untamed feral creatures, and under her strict tutelage, they stayed exactly as they were, albeit untamed feral creatures who could sing Johnny Johnny yes papa and ABCDE loudly, proficiently and totally uncomprehendingly.
Then Mummy came back from her month long stay with my sister and found that the house had been broken into the day she arrived, right under the obviously-not-so-watchful-noses of the housekeeper-chauffeur combine. All nature of things had been taken. The cops were called and duly descended. My mother became all Furious Robbed Householder from Hell ("the CHEEK of these so and so's — they took my fleeces from America but my Nagpur jacket wasn't good enough for them??!!") meets Inspector Clouseau ("hmmmmmm. Obviously, the thieves are illiterates from a cold place — my thermals have gone, but my passport is still here") meets Hindu Detachment Grand Central ("these are only things. God has cleared out my cupboard so my children don't need to do it when I am gone.")
The real Inspectors meanwhile, had theories of their own — and God, as the Supreme Cleaner Outer of Cupboards, was certainly not on the suspect list. They began to get heavy with the housekeeper-driver couple. Mummy was distraught and called the investigating team together, gave them mixed fruit juice and made a pious and tender speech about how much it savaged her soul to think of how the couple were being harassed. She had already had a word with them about their irresponsibility but they were young and so it was understandable. Meanwhile, she gave them a totally clean chit and so could they, the cops, after finishing off the mixed fruit juice, go out and catch the real criminals please?
Moved to tears by her obvious love and concern for her help and by her quivering eloquence, the police duly thrashed the driver, who obligingly made a full and frank confession. Over the course of the next few days, the couple were by turns frogmarched to their village and came back laden with almost half the loot. It had apparently been stashed in the cowshed, situated almost a vertical kilometre below the homesteads in the village and the police did an incredible job of lugging back what they could find. The rest, they said was irretrievable.