This is the first time I’ve every had a butler and maid. Well, that might be putting it too generously, really. It’s more like a husband and wife who come over, hang out, and make something to eat once in a while. They also deal with laundry (washed by hand on the back terrace and ironed at a “wala” out on the street) and incessantly sweep off the terrace. On occasion they change a sheet and tidy up the bathroom. Other than that, I frankly have no idea what they do all day.
(You see the ironing-wala stations around the neighborhood. There are actually hot coals or something in the irons.)
In any case, my day begins with some form of dawn chorus, with crazy ass birds that are somehow very tiny (I can never see them in the palm trees) and yet extremely loud. Seriously, it’s like the most obnoxious car alarm you have ever heard. And they certainly never sleep in. Then the stray dogs start barking, scooters scooting, a cacophony of horns, and people down on the street yelling as they walk by, peddling their wares. Then the newspapers hit the side of the house. It’s very interesting to read the news from a local perspective. According to The Hindu, almost all bad in the world comes from Pakistan, America, and the Indian political class.
Then the milk arrives via sari-clad woman. It requires boiling. I love the container it arrives in. Stainless steel cutlery and dishware is in vogue down here.
Muniappa comes in the morning, makes breakfast (some combination of greasy toast, fruit, and south indian idly) and putters around for a few hours. Once in a while he tries to talk to me about things (read: money), but he doesn’t speak English and my Hindi is pretty rusty, so it isn’t a very fulfilling conversation for either of us. A lot of nodding and smiling.
His wife, Indra, comes in the afternoon, takes a nap, has a friend over perhaps, and sits and watches me. For instance, she is sitting across the room, staring at me as I type this. A lot of “attending” going on, but not much “doing”. If I ask her to, she will also make dinner. She too is here for at least a few hours.
Once in a while, the kids come over. I spent a whole evening searching for games on the internet for their daughter, Durga, who seems to think I am some long lost, wealthy, uncle. There is at least one son, maybe two. Not sure about that.
Although I found the lack of privacy unnerving, it was all fine and good until I came home one evening and found the whole family camped out in the living room, enjoying tea. I was in a rush to shower and meet people, so I had to shoo them out and be a bit less accommodating from then on. That seems to have done the trick.
It has been interesting to be around people from that class, however. And really, I must use the word “class”, despite the fact that it is somehow difficult for me, as an American (or a Liberal?) to use it. It just sounds so, well, classist. But class/caste is alive and well here. The personal adds are listed by caste. And there is something in the paper everyday about caste quotas for school or this and that. I’ve also noticed how Indians will be very harsh to people in service positions, which I interpret also as a class thing; no problem whatsoever being rude to the guy behind the desk, snapping fingers at the waiter, yelling at beggars, or scolding your driver. The whole master/servant thing is hard to digest.
Making the distance between the classes even more pronounced, folks like Indra and Muniappa are basically illiterate, so sometimes I need to write things down for them and have their 10 year old daughter translate it for them later. I’m not clear what the literacy rate is in southern India, but I have noticed that most rickshaw drivers seem completely perplexed by a map and that showing them the name of a street does absolutely nothing for them. Telling them an exact address or an intersection will not help you. They want the name of a landmark; last night I had to say “by KFC” before he got it. the intersection of two main roads was not enough. Ditto goes for taxis that I call to come pick me up – they need points of reference around the neighborhood. In fact, in a conversation I had yesterday, I learned that in many places in India you can simply list a family last name and a nearby store or landmark and the mail will find its way to them. Everything is so incredibly localized. In this sort of environment, it is easy to see how some education, language skills, and mobility can catapult someone to a completely different level of indian society.
