When you get ‘that’ invite (and more about plastic chairs)

I am not sure how other expats feel about that moment when you are invited back to the home of your maid or driver.  It’s something that I have always expected would happen – I hear stories of expats being invited back for tea at the homes of their staff all the time.  But it’s something that I knew would make me feel uncomfortable – if it was ever to happen.

We have a good relationships with both our cleaner and our driver (Reetha and Peter).  We have helped them out with a couple of things on occasion (without them asking for it).  But our worlds are so different that I am always left feeling so guilty about how lucky I am and how difficult their lives are by comparison.  Of course, this is all in my own head – they are perfectly happy going about their jobs and barely bat an eye-lid at our westernised consumer obsessions.

Peter, our Catholic driver recently announced to us, – proudly announced to us – that he had been made Vice President of his local chapel committee.  The chapel – which is in fact virtually next door to his house had fallen into disuse and the committee had decided to collect funds from the community in order to refurbish and re-open it as a convenient place of worship. It would be Peter’s job to arrange all of the works. Each morning for the last two weeks, Peter has given us a report of the previous day’s goings ons. In depth descriptions of the repainting, the colour of the paint, the rewiring, problems with managing contractors and his thoughts about seating.  This is where we came in.  I had asked Peter if Mr Jules and I could contribute in some way.  It would be a reward for all the hard work he was doing out of hours. At first he said no – but having put so much of his own money into the project he came back to us a couple of days later – and asked what we thought to providing a couple of plastic chairs – just for the old people to sit on.

As I had only just written a blog about India’s Ubiquitous Plastic Chairs, I became quite excited at the prospect of hunting down some chair shops and making a deal for some colourful moulded seats!  I don’t think Peter could quite understand why I had become so passionate about this particular type of seating.

So the next day, off we went shopping – Peter, Bartlet and myself.  Well it was a lot more difficult than you think – considering how ubiquitous the plastic chair is – shops selling them are not so easily found. However, we eventually located two or three small plastics shops in Santacruz. In order for us not to get ripped off, I sent Peter out to ascertain prices whilst I sat with Bartlet in the car. When he returned from the first shop, he reported that the prices were Rs 500 – 600 per seat. WHAT??? Five or six English Pounds each? You’ve got to be kidding – this is India for God’s sake!

Unfortunately, the story was the same at the next two shops.  But then Peter said that I should go and ask the prices in case they would be more generous towards a female.  What, a Western woman carrying a designer handbag getting out of an stretch Honda Accord?  I hardly think so Peter!

Surprisingly, I was actually successful in negotiating a 500 Rs plastic chair down to 450 Rs on the proviso that I bought ten.  Which I did.  I quickly completed the transaction and then we stuffed the chairs on to the back seat of the car whilst I sat on the front seat with Bartlet on my lap. That’s when Peter told me he wanted to go and take the chairs back to the chapel right there and then and ‘would I come so that I could see the work?’ As it transpired, his home was right around the corner – so I couldn’t really say no – and besides, I would be glad to get those plastic chairs out of the car as soon as possible.

As soon as I agreed, Peter made several hurried phone calls, speaking bossily in Marathi – I heard the words chai and ma’am used several times.  I think he was saying ‘get the kettle on quick; I am bringing madam!‘.  (Yes for the folk back home, I am called ma’am and Mr Jules is called ‘sir’ or ‘boss’).

Two minutes later, after steering the car through the windy narrow streets of Peter’s neighbourhood, we arrived at a hole in a fence where several women were standing waiting. I was already starting to feel distinctly uncomfortable (and had a face on like Camilla Parker-Bowles).  A very over-excited Bartlet and I got out of the car and after shaking hands with the women, I was asked to follow them through the hole in the fence.  For five minutes, we teetered across part building site, part slum – across open sewers, through foot wide alleyways, ducking electrical wires and small children, zig-zagging around corners until we reached an open area. Peter ended up having to carry Bartie as there was just too many pitfalls for a small dog – whilst two young lads dragged the plastic chairs along.

Here, where the chapel stood, the sunlight was able to flood in from above. More people stood around waiting to greet me. I was surprised by the hive of activity at the chapel and how much Peter had managed to achieve (he wasn’t just making it up).  I was told to go inside (and even allowed to keep my shoes on!) and have a look. Peter proudly showed me all the works that had gone on whilst men stood precariously at the tops of ladders looking down at us.  After admiring the shade of the blue paint that had been used and giving some of my best interior design tips, I stepped back outside – only to be greeted by a crowd of people who had turned out to see ‘Peter’s ma’am’.

They asked me if I wanted Chai and of course I said yes (especially as I knew that Peter had rung ahead to get the kettle on).  But I couldn’t quite believe it when after a couple of minutes, a man came up to me bearing a china tea-cup and saucer perched on a metal tray.  Like a proper English Bone China tea-cup! I had been expecting a small glass of milky, sugary chai – as is customary – but I was being given the full works!  Not only that, but the tea itself was a delicately scented rose tea – more English than Indian. And then one of the women offered me some pastry from a plate piled high. No-one else was eating or drinking tea.  They were just all stood around staring at me.

Peter was holding on to Bartie but my puppy was still very over-excited.  He is a ‘people-person’. But then Peter let go of him and he started darting around the chapel, sniffing out anything interesting and jumping up to greet the ladies and gentlemen.  That’s when he backed into a can of oil-paint and got it all over his hind-legs.

I saw that as a good opportunity to make my excuses and leave.  But not before Peter asked me if he could show me his home next door.  The moment (I am sorry to say) that I was really dreading.  So he led me through a dark alleyway to his front door and opened it up.  I peered my head around into a grim, black space with no natural daylight whatsoever.  But when he switched the bulb on, I could see that he had a pretty decent sized living space with a ladder leading to a second level – and a kitchen area full of shiny cooking utensils with a two-pan stove.  He opened up a door to reveal his tiny bathroom – (I thought this to be very unusual in a chawl?).  I asked him about the lack of natural light but he said that the upstairs area had a window or opening facing the sky – that made me feel a bit better.  Despite feeling uncomfortable about seeing where Peter lived I re-assured him that I was impressed by his house (a house where he was born and where his parents had lived a lot of their lives until his mum had died) and that I really appreciated him showing me his community.  He came away with a smile on his face – my visit had meant so much to him.

And really, I had to accept that it was an honour for me too – to be invited back to his community – that he trusted me enough to share something from his life.   But the disparity in the way we both live still makes me feel tremendously guilty, I just can’t help it.