bout de papier, Vol. 7, No. 2 (1989), p. 36
by Laurel Pardy
Twenty years ago, fresh and relaxed after an exhilarating thirty-six hour flight from Gander to New Delhi with two children under two, I deplaned into the searing Indian sunshine to be greeted by the High Commissioner and a full panoply of colleagues. With more bravado than a brass monkey, I shouldered diaper bags and babies and strode into diplomatic life.
Initiation was swift and ruthless. Within twenty-four hours I had attended a lunch, a dinner and two receptions. I had viewed my new home and experienced an Indian marketplace. I had been introduced and briefed. All of which left me certain that, if I were to survive, it was imperative that I hire competent domestic staff as soon as possible. Easier said than done.
The first set I accepted on the recommendation of a bachelor — a bad choice for a family. The second set came from a colleague whose government authorized very generous pay scales for domestic staff — a choice not satisfactory to the staff. The third set came from different caste, language and religious backgrounds — a bad choice for domestic harmony. The fourth set came from referrals from the most important person in the house, the children’s nanny. They stayed with us for three years.
During the intervening years, the foibles and ingenuity of assorted domestic staff have generated much laughter and many tears. In the end they were more important to the outcome of the posting than the ambassador.
Many situations were generated out of my ignorance compounded by their ingenuity. Seemingly innocent requests can be loaded with implications.
Such was the case when the dhobi (the laundryman) asked whether he should do my laundry as well as Sahib’s. To my mind it was a frivolous question. Why should he be paid to do laundry and leave half of it undone?
What I did not realize was that there was laundry, and there was laundry. In India, only a long-time male servant would be allowed to do Memsahib’s personal laundry. To prove his privileged status to the world my Mark’s and Spencer’s cut-for-comfort cottons and Sahib’s sturdy Stanfield’s graced the front lawn every laundry day for three years. I tried repeatedly to remove them to the rear yard but he remained adamant that the sun was better in the front garden. This in a country where the sun shines twelve hours a day every day of the year.
On another occasion and in another country, I tried to instill the concept of the compost heap into the gardener. Over several months, decomposable garbage and yard sweepings went into a pit and were nurtured with attention. As another planting season approached, I looked forward to returning to nature that which was nature’s. On an auspicious morning, I instructed the gardener to “look after” the compost because tomorrow we would begin the planting of the garden.
I returned home to the aroma of burning vegetation. Every scrap of compost had been carefully burned to make room for the additional compost which would be generated during this growing season. I will never know what he thought I was doing with the compost — some sort of peculiar plant worship, I suppose.
Status symbols are another tricky area of mutual incomprehension. Consider the time the house sweeper requested to wash the car. It was dirty so I agreed. Over the next few days, I slowly realized that the household was not running smoothly. The cook was surly, the bearer was uncooperative and the gardener was skulking behind the garage. Unknowingly, I had granted a status privilege to a low status servant and everyone’s nose was out of joint except the sweeper’s, and he was busy preening himself in the car mirror.
There is a popular belief among the uninitiated that the presence of servants makes representation a breeze. Dinner parties bring out the best and the worst in one’s staff, especially in cultures where the word “No” does not exist.
“Do you know how to make Charlotte Rousse?”
“Yes.”
“Is there enough rice to make pulao for 20 people?”
“Yes.”
“Do you understand?” “Yes”
“Do you need someone else to help you prepare for the party?”
“It is up to you, Memsahib.” (Means both yes and no simultaneously and may be interpreted, “F’ll sulk if you do because it means you think I can’t do the job and I’ll sulk if you don’t because it is too much work.”)
Recommendations are another treacherous aspect of managing domestic staff – not for what is written but for what is not written. Characteristics and qualifications not stated can be presumed not to exist, for example, “Esperanza follows intructions well” means she has to be told very explicitly what to do otherwise it will not be done; “Vladimir always arrives on time and has several dishes at which he excels” means he is sent by the state and knows two recipes. On the other hand, “Mustapha is intelligent, hard-working and honest” probably means just that.
If you are fortunate, there will be a very special employee who comes into your life and without whom your life would be less than it is. I was fortunate because such a person crossed my path early in my foreign service life. I am referring to my children’s nanny.
She became both mother and mentor to me and my infant sons during a very critical period. She eased my transition from farmer’s daughter to diplomat’s wife and started my children along the path to becoming the fine young men they are today. A fortuitous happenstance of the erratic assignment process for which I am very grateful.
As I wade through the vagaries of another assignment process, and contemplate another tour in the “servant belt” “, I remind myself that it is easy to have a laugh at the expense of one’s domestic staff, but it is wise to remember that these are the people who know more about you than your mother.
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Originally published in bout de papier, Vol. 7, No. 2 (1989), p. 36. Read the rest of this issue →
