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her time and has an hour-and-a-half commute at either end. She trains people in customer-handling skills and in how to lose their Indian accent. She likes broccoli, coriander, and orange juice.
    Asha, as expected, is a little less prolix but still gives me some nuggets: She’s also a salsa dancer, oddly enough. She used to do something called “ value-based education through dance .” She studied electrical engineering, got married in February to a guy in real estate. She works from 9:30 A.M . to 5:30 P.M . Bangalore time. She lives with her in-laws.
    I’ve realized something: Asha and Honey never say no. I find myself testing them, asking them to perform increasingly bizarre tasks, inching toward abuse of power. Read the
New
York Times
for me. E-mail me a bunch of questions from
Who Wants to Be a Millionaire.
Watch some viral videos and send me a summary. The closest I got to a no was when I made the admittedly odd request that Asha play the card game hearts for me, since I was wasting too much time playing it myself on my PDA. Asha replied that she thought this was a “ good idea ” but that maybe she would do it after finishing the other projects.
    Emboldened by Mr. Naveen’s triumph with my parents, I decide to test the next logical relationship: my marriage. These arguments with my wife are killing me—partly because Julie is a much better debater than I am. Maybe Asha can do better:
    Hello Asha ,
    My wife got annoyed at me because I forgot to get cash at the automatic bank machine. . . . I wonder if you could tell her that I love her, but gently remind her that she too forgets things—she has lost her wallet twice in the last month. And she forgot to buy nail clippers for Jasper.
    AJ
    I can’t tell you what a thrill I got from sending that note. It’s pretty hard to get much more passive-aggressive than bickering with your wife via an e-mail from a subcontinent halfway around the world.
    The next morning, Asha CC’d me on the e-mail she sent to Julie .
    Julie ,
    Do understand your anger that I forgot to pick up the cash at the automatic machine. I have been forgetful and I am sorry about that .
    But I guess that doesn’t change the fact that I love you so much .
    Love
    AJ
    P.S. This is Asha mailing on behalf of Mr. Jacobs .
    As if that weren’t enough, she also sent Julie an e-card. I click on it: two teddy bears embracing, with the words “ Anytime you need a hug, I’ve got one for you. . . . I’m sorry .”
    Damn! My outsourcers are too friggin’ nice! They kept the apology part but took out my little jabs. They are trying to save me from myself. They are superegoing my id. I feel castrated.
    Julie, on the other hand, seems quite pleased: “That’s nice, sweetie. I forgive you.”
    I shoot off another e-mail to Asha:
    “ Could you thank her for forgiving me for not getting cash? And tell her that I, in turn, forgive her for forgetting to tell me about the Central Park date with Shannon and David until I overheard her talking about it with a friend .”
    The next morning I get CC’d on another Asha e-mail to Julie.
    Am happy you forgave me for not getting the cash. And I am glad to do the same about the Central Park date with Shannon and David .
    It’s human nature to forget. Perhaps, I could do better by having Asha put up a calendar and sending us reminders about these little things.
    Love
    AJ
    Good. At least this time I got my little dig in. But Julie just brushes it off—it’s hard to trump a hugging-teddy-bear apologynote. Like it or not, those damn stuffed animals improved my marriage. Asha should take care of all my bickering; she’s my better nature.
    Meanwhile, Honey seems to be lavishing me with even more adulation these days. She tells me that she waits eagerly for my e-mails. I’m beginning to feel like David Koresh without the guitar or weapons stash. It’s a little stressful. I’m forever afraid of disappointing her, of not being creative or brilliant enough to merit her