Sex in my Delhi guest house

What woman does not want a man to cook and clean for her, smile at her every entrance and laugh at her jokes even when he doesn't get it.

I don't know one straight woman who is self-loathing enough to turn down man pamperage?

The thought of men avenging the static feminization of domestic work is so heavenly -- so frothing at the mouth of so many relationships, that so many of us have --like me--begged to marry the man who served up the first home-cooked meal and a back rub-- in the same night!

But here in India, and inside my guest house, I'm learning that male servitude comes at a price: good English.

Since I arrived at my guest house, a team of three men have catered to me and the five other American journalists I'm staying with.

Their names are Angat, Abbal and Heyat. They all have the most radiant smiles I've seen. They all weigh about a buck 30. They all speak bare-bones Hinglish -- an elixir of Hindi and English.
Meet Angat:



Having pampered me with two-to-three meals a day everyday, with chai tea on demand, with laundry service, with folding my dirty underwear, with making my bed, with being profusely humble and gracious and upbeat --- these men have opened a room in my heart. I love them for their work.

But I just can't stand the subservience and the silence wrought by our mutual incompetency in each other's language.

Most of our exchanges amount to headwobbling -- a gesture everyone in India does to the left or right to say, "ok, I'll take care of it."

I thought I'd never say this, but I'm tired of the men taking care of me. I want them to tell me their dreams, their visions for the world. Their philosophical perspectives on India's rapid modernization. About the way their heart bends when that special woman looks them in the eye and says, 'thank you.'

--Malena