May, 1998
Hello from Bombay,
We employ two servants, but it is hard to communicate what all that means if you don't live and interact with them on a day-to-day basis. I will share a few examples. This past Saturday evening at 7:00 p.m. the doorbell rings. It is our driver, Hasmukh. We had not asked for his services that evening even though we were going out. He works 8‑6 Monday through Saturday (for $100 per month) and after that we pay him 40 rupees an hour ($1) overtime. This past week we utilized his after-hours services a few times, partly because it is difficult to find parking once we arrive at our destination, and partly because it is his son's birthday and we thought the extra income would help him purchase a gift. That we thought the second one begins to get at what I mean by day-to-day living with and employing a servant.
So Hasmukh is at the door asking if we are going out that night. Odd, I thought, but he is very competent, very polite, very trustworthy, so I wasn't bothered or suspicious and told him, "Yes, as a matter of fact, we are. We need to be somewhere at 8 o'clock." It bothered me a little, knowing that it bothers him when I drive. Don't misunderstand me. He is not bothered because he is missing out on overtime, or because he is not tooling along in our lovely(?), luxury(?!), 1987 Toyota Van. Oh no! He's bothered because Sahib (pronounced saab, like the car) is driving, something Sahibs or Memsahibs (Sahib's wife) generally do not do. In my typical American disregard for my proper station (which I am certain neither Hasmukh nor Patsy actually begrudge), I am doing something outside my calling and worse, doing something that is within his.
Forgive the digression, but here's a great example of this mentality. Many mornings, Eric likes me to take him to school (which is one minute from my office) early so he can study before class. The first morning I did that, Hasmukh was already on the Consulate grounds having driven his co‑employer, a colleague of mine, to work early. Hasmukh was standing on the sidewalk outside the open gates of the Consulate compound and when he saw me make the right turn (across an opposing lane of traffic; remember we drive on the left here) he ran out into the street wanting to hop in to take over. My first impulse was to get out and let him do it. Then I thought, what on earth, I'm in the middle of traffic! I smiled and motioned to Hasmukh that I would drive on in. But he was very apologetic and anxious for me to GET OUT FROM BEHIND THE DRIVER'S SEAT so for goodness sake he could at least park it.
Back to last Saturday, Hasmukh told me with his modest English that he and his brother (a motor pool driver where I work) were going to the airport to pick up a dog that had been flown in from Karachi, Pakistan (owned by a colleague stationed there who had sold it to Hasmukh’s co-employer). He could take a taxi, he explained, but it would be a long, difficult trip, so could he use our van? It takes a good hour to drive to the airport, possibly longer on a Saturday evening (at least going), and it would be worse in a cab. So we arranged that if he could drive us to the Yacht Club (we were going to a Scottish Dance not to watch, but to do), around 8 and pick us up between 10:30 and 11:00, then no problem. And it meant we wouldn’t have to find parking. So he drove us there. And we danced. And at 10:45 when we left the yacht Club and walked downstairs, no Hasmukh. As I mentioned, he is very trustworthy and treats the car as if it were his own, if not better. So I didn't worry. Until 11:15. And 11:30. Here we stood, wife, ten-year-old daughter (who by now was exhausted) and me, still waiting at the un‑air-conditioned (straight out of the British era) Yacht Club of Bombay. We were sweaty, uncomfortable, and wondering what was up. We worried there had been a problem at the airport, or perhaps a breakdown or an accident. By 11:45, we got a ride with some of the last departing folks from the dance. I checked in the garage back at our place about 12:15. Still no car. I was exhausted but I hated to go to sleep before I knew what had happened, convinced by this time that whatever had happened was no doubt bad. Just as I was dozing off on the couch, the doorbell rang. It was 12:50. I opened the door and there stood Hasmukh and his brother Anil leading a cute little mutt of a dog on a leash. They were very apologetic, said that the customs process had taken long, but finally, here they were. I was just glad that everybody and the car were o.k. And we got a thorough car cleaning out of the deal. On the one hand, we worried some that evening but on the other, we have a grateful employee who feels even more loyal to us and who will continue to give us good service and help us care for our car.
Here's another servant story: This past week‑end, Patsy said goodbye to her daughter and husband. They will not see each other again for a year. Hubby and daughter are going back to his home place in the far north of India where he will have some job opportunities with his family and the daughter, Priyah, will be able to go to a good school. We asked Patsy why she is not moving too. Because she has a good job, she told us. It especially makes Nita cringe to think that WE are that good job and the $100 a month she makes with us is worth the year-long separation. I asked if Priyah cried when they left. Not really, Patsy said, but her husband was concerned about leaving his wife in the big city. Patsy assured him that her Sir and Madam (that's what she calls us), would take good care of her. Another heavy thing for us to hear. And though she will still have Sundays off she will not be going back to her home, but will simply live in the tiny quarters we provide her next to our flat. Along these lines, Hasmukh has a wife and two sons who live an overnight train trip north in Gujarat, the state in India directly north of us. Since he works six days a week, how often can he see his family? It is typical for workers to be separated from their families for extended times for economic necessities.
Here is one more servant story: Katie and I made fig jam this evening. I rinsed the pots a bit but didn't wash a thing, knowing that Patsy will be glad to do it tomorrow. Also, one can purchase both sweet and (one of my favorite fruits) sour cherries here. I intend to get sour cherries for pies, and preserves. And guess who will do the odious job of pitting the cherries? Not Sahib or his wife or children, that's for sure.
Things here are fine. Many thanks for the e‑mail, regular mail, and, yes, even the few phone calls we've gotten. If you're feeling adventuresome, a great time to call is Friday night U.S. time, which is Saturday morning our time.
Much love, Gary Sahib, Nita Memsahib, the two Sahiblings and the Memsahibette