Six Car Lengths Behind an Elephant, page 10
My terrible apprehension began. It stayed with me always, sometimes expanding into cold fear, sometimes into revulsion. I did not understand this country, and I still don’t. At a welcoming cocktail party Jack had given, we had met intelligent, educated, charming Indian people, and they just smiled at all of it. It was some kind of secret, an understanding I could not comprehend. The British wife of an Indian friend told me that she came to India as his bride, and when they invited numerous members of his family to meet her, her husband told her to hide her collection of perfume bottles, which were on the bathroom counter. “But these people are your family!” she protested. She did not put the bottles away. At the end of the party, the bottles were all gone. In her particular position, she thought it was their way of showing their disapproval of the mixed marriage, and then, quite honestly, she said it went further than that, as in the experience I had had. But she couldn’t explain it. “This is India,” she said.
At this point, she always wore a sari, and had learned to speak Hindi. She put up with no games. “But,” she said with a smile, “I’m no longer trying to be noble. The cook does the shopping, and I hide even the toilet paper.” And she laughed. I had also been warned not to go to the market for food, particularly meat, as most markets were in the open air, filled with flies, and one had to barter the price. For food? Having been warned that the cook would steal from me, I was undaunted . . . almost.
I told Sharma that I personally wanted to shop for meat: mutton, beef, and chicken. Again, he protested vigorously, “Memsahib not like it.” I was puffed up with independence and obstinance. For some reason, I was determined that I would not be made a fool of, and I would not show any nervousness. The meat market was set up in a dirt field, with newly slaughtered goats hanging from hooks and dripping blood. This was “mutton.” They were beside roasts of water buffalo (“beef”) equally bloody, fresh from the kill. I stifled my disgust to save my pride, ordering six mutton chops. A side of goat was given to an old man sitting in the dirt. He was dressed in rags, and had a large knife between his toes, which he used to slice off chops onto a page of newspaper, in which the chops were then wrapped. I had to admit a certain admiration for the art of slicing with one’s toes. The man did have hands.
I scurried home, never to return. Let the cook cook the books. Everyone had advised, “Just let the cook steal 10%.” I could live with that. As time passed, I realized that stealing or cheating was the norm. I don’t think the Indian people took it seriously. It was a way of life. I had to learn this and accept it. I should not take it as a personal slight, and I should not allow it to anger me. I decided to give up my declaration of independence after this experience. I was depressed.
This was a hardship post, and for that reason we were contracted to spend only two years there. The heat was almost unbearable in the hot months of April and May, especially when we experienced frequent power failures lasting as long as 72 hours with no air conditioning, fans, or refrigeration. Of course, the stove could not be used either, requiring a good deal of imagination to put meals together. It meant that water could not be boiled, so we drank Coca Cola.
Finding New Friends
Every morning, I woke up with a heavy heart, wondering how I was going to spend the day. Some days I was more than just depressed. We were surrounded by poverty and pain, and the fact that I had a car and driver was not a luxury that meant anything to me. There were always problems to solve, and I didn’t think of them as just challenges. It was more a case of just getting through the day. I had many acquaintances, but no real friends yet. New Delhi was a party town, as strange as that may seem, because there was no outlet for recreation apart from the community swimming pool, and a once-a-week movie shown at the embassy. Most of the movies were very old and dated, but we all attended, whether or not we had already seen Clark Gable in Boom Town.
We entertained often, blessed as we were with cooks and bearers and sweepers. There were a lot of garden parties in the evening, the ladies in their long gowns and the men wearing the uniform white shirts with short sleeves, which were made to measure at the “Blah Tailor.” The bearer (butler) glided among the guests with his tray of drinks, and the irony of all this gracious living was that the liquor came from a bootlegger. This was our social life.
When we went to see the American International School, as it was called then, we were agreeably surprised. It was a well-appointed, fairly new building with modern, western decor. When we had an opportunity to talk to the teachers, we were also pleased. Some of the teachers were spouses of American Embassy people, and in the majority, they were truly dedicated (or they wouldn’t be in India). There were extracurricular activities, as well as sports events which were enthusiastically attended by all adults . . . hey, this was entertainment.
John had never played baseball, and although he wasn’t particularly interested, we thought it would be a good diversion. Frank arranged for someone in the U.S. to mail a baseball mitt to John. When we received a notice from the customs people, Frank went down to claim it, and was told there would be a fifty-dollar customs charge, which he paid. He just paid it. We were learning. John didn’t take to the mitt, but fortunately, a British school in Delhi had a soccer team and we found out they didn’t have enough players. John was overjoyed, they were overjoyed, and we were all overjoyed. We went to see his first games, and it appeared that Frank and I combined were the only fans in attendance.
It was hard for all three children, attending a new school. It was like auditioning for a role with all the odds stacked against you, and feeling that you would never get the part. Only time and patience could change it. There was a good drama class, with an excellent teacher, and it was an outlet for the girls to take part in a shared experience that would inevitably bring about friendship, or at least open the door. I was very pleased with the multicultural student body, every color, every race, every religion. Many of those children had similar backgrounds as our children, a majority of them being children of embassy personnel. They understood the heartbreak of moving.
Every embassy in the world seemed to be represented. For our children, it was like finding a huge box of chocolates, each one a different flavor, and the opportunity to find out which ones were their favorites. Unfortunately, they were not allowed to buy lunch in the cafeteria, because only children of embassy personnel were the chosen ones. I packed an enchanting lunch for them, which always consisted of chicken legs (scrawny) and Coca Cola. There was no sandwich, because we often didn’t have bread. The kids told me later that they sometimes threw their lunches out the bus window and bartered for peanut butter on white bread from the Americans.
Delhi CIA
For the first time, Frank encountered a hostile case officer. We learned that the reason for this was that we were “living in luxury in a grand neighborhood with a car and a driver,” as if we were being treated with special courtesies. We were simply living the life that a representative of our cover company would have. Jack had warned Frank that this attitude prevailed, but I would have gladly given up the driver and the bodyguards for one shopping spree at the American Commissary. It would be a luxury to get such rare things as bread and milk, or margarine, flour, sugar, or, the greatest gift of all: peanut butter.
The case officer chose not to personally meet with Frank. This, of course, was meant as a slight, but at least his emissary was amiable and apologetic. He was aware of the hostility demonstrated by the case officer because he had made it clear to him that under no circumstances was he to do any favors for us, stressing, as an example, that he would not be buying us a turkey for Christmas. The young man was embarrassed about this, especially as he and Frank became friends.
The emissary’s wife was Johanna’s teacher at the International School. She was a very engaging young woman and a good teacher. When she asked if I would be a “room mother” for the class, I readily said yes. A school-related festivity was coming up, so she asked if I would bake cookies for their little party. I told her there was no flour in the market, but if she could get me some, I would be glad to supply cookies. She said that would be no problem. Then she called me at home and asked me to drop in at the school to talk to her. When I did, she told me that her husband had told her she couldn’t buy flour for me, and that they were both embarrassed by the situation, and truly sorry. I ended up buying cookies at the hotel bakery.
As for the turkey at Christmas? Diplomats from all foreign embassies had privileges at the U.S. Commissary. This included secretaries and clerks. I had befriended a secretary at the Australian High Commission, so she went to the commissary and bought a turkey for us for Christmas. She shared that holiday with us, and many holidays to come.
During the entire time we were in India, Frank never had a personal meeting with the head of the CIA there. We didn’t even know what he looked like. We did learn that the U.S. Ambassador had been apprised of the presence of a deep cover CIA officer in New Delhi, and that he had made it known that he did not want to be advised who the man was, and there was only one. New Delhi was a gossipy small town, and all the expatriates socialized: businessmen, journalists, diplomats from foreign countries, but seldom members of the U.S. Embassy. We admired the Ambassador for his stand. He knew that if the deep cover man were picked up, he would be helpless. There was nothing he could do about it, leaving the deep cover agent in the hands of the Indian police, a circumstance we shuddered to imagine. And we did attend parties where we met the Ambassador on a very informal level. It was known that he liked non-diplomatic gatherings with real people talking frankly about real things. The journalists really liked him, describing him as a “no bullshit” guy and a rarity, gregarious and witty. Everyone liked him.
Servants
The fact that we had ten servants seems like unimaginable decadence, but because of the caste system, housecleaning had to be divided between those who cleaned the floor and those who cleaned the furniture and made beds, those who handled food and served drinks, those who cooked, those who did the laundry, and those who looked after the children.
We had 24-hour guards at the front gate who carried machete knives. The knives were strapped across their chests and through their belts, and this absolutely delighted Frank. “Hey . . . guys with big knives at the gate. I love that.” No one entered without passing the guards and being announced to me. Our gardener, who was called a mahli, gradually turned our half-acre of dirt into a colorful garden. (Frank once joked, “Isn’t it interesting that our gardener has an Irish name?”) The nanny, Theresa, was called the ayah and she was very dear to me. She was seventy years old and had previously been a nurse in the British Army. She was intelligent, kind, and fearless. She, too, carried a knife, which she tucked into her sari when she walked the children to the school bus. When their lives were threatened (a story still to come), she walked tall, ahead of the guards. She also stood guard at the kitchen door to make sure the kitchen help washed their hands with carbolic soap to kill germs, particularly if they had taken a “bathroom” break. Theresa was in charge of boiling the water for 45 minutes. She gave this order, to ensure that it would in fact be boiled for 20 minutes. It was difficult to avoid amoebic dysentery regardless of all the precautions we took. If a fly landed on the rim of a glass of lemonade, it was instantly contaminated.
It might be said that Theresa was my household spy. I truly loved her.
Initially, I thought the servants’ quarters were bleak and bare, but I soon learned that multitudes of Indians lived on the street. Frank once called it “the world’s biggest slumber party. We had to harden ourselves to the constant barrage of beggars and the sights and smells of poverty everywhere.
When the car window was open, crippled babies would be pushed through, some maimed, some blind and with flies in their eyes. There were children everywhere who were called “spider boys,” their arms and legs broken by their parents at birth in order to become professional beggars. I sometimes wondered why they were all boys, and was told that many Indian baby girls were thrown in the river, because they were “worthless.” The life of a male child had value from the point of view of his ability to work and support his parents when his parents were old.
One particular spider boy could be found at the same intersection, every day. Frank passed him on his way to work. He was a beautiful child with huge, sparkling eyes and a dazzling smile. Every Friday, we gave him money. He knew our car, and always waved happily at us. He made me weep.
The scope of these tragedies was too vast for us to even try to make a noticeable difference, so Frank and I made a small contribution by paying for the servants’ children’s school tuition and uniforms. The driver’s son qualified for university and we paid his entrance fee. The ayah had taken responsibility for her two grandsons who were in a private Catholic school. We paid their tuition and supplied them with clothes, blankets, books, and their transportation to and from school to spend the holidays with their grandmother.
We also looked after the health of the servants, insofar as it was possible. When Joseph, our bearer, told me his infant child was in the hospital and would die without penicillin (which was not provided by the hospital), I sent Sharma to the hospital to verify the story. It was true. Then I went to the chemist and bought the penicillin. (“Chemists” in New Delhi are not chemists. They just own a store and sell drugs.) Every day, I gave Joseph the daily requirement, which I kept in the refrigerator, and he would then go to the hospital on his bicycle. When I was told by Sharma that the child had died, Joseph had not come in to work, which I felt was understandable under the tragic circumstances. I sent Sharma to Joseph’s quarters to see if he needed help, as he did not live in our quarters. When the driver returned, he said Joseph was drunk. He added that Joseph had sold the penicillin and had bought liquor. He was not absent because of his grief. He was just having a good time.
The next day, when Joseph came to the gate, I left instructions for the guards to turn him away. I was very angry. Joseph came back with his wife and asked for me. I went to the gate, fuelled with rage, and Joseph fell to the ground and crawled at my feet, groveling for his job. I called him a baby-killer. I wanted to beat him. Then his wife pleaded with me, speaking Hindi, with her hands together in the prayerful way. Did a mother place no value on the life of her infant son? Was his death insignificant? I would not let that be.
Our two guards were Nepalese. They slept in the servants’ quarters and were always on duty when expected. We didn’t know much about them until one, Lal, asked for time off to go to Nepal to see his wife and two children. He asked for two months off, because he was going to walk. We gave him the time off, and when he returned, I asked him, through the ayah, if he had been glad to see his family. He grinned broadly, absolutely beaming, He had been gone for three years, and he discovered he had four children now. His family had grown and he was a happy man. When I considered the variety of backgrounds and beliefs of the people living in the quarters, it was a broad lesson in cultures of different lands, religions, and lifestyle.
One night, when Frank was away on a business trip, I was awakened by a noise from the back garden near the servants’ quarters. I peeked behind the curtains and saw the driver and the cook there, circling each other with knives. I called Theresa and asked her what was happening. She calmly explained that one was a Muslim and the other a Hindu, which was cause enough for a duel, but apparently they also didn’t like each other personally. I sat ramrod straight on the edge of the bed, staring through the window in disbelief, hearing the sound of savagery. No one had told us that a household is more tranquil if the servants are of the same religion. Theresa was Catholic. Sharma was a Hindu, and our cook, Jimmy was a Muslim. In this case, Sharma had accused Jimmy of being a thief and their knives were unsheathed. Fortunately, they didn’t advance on each other and were able to part without causing injury.
My dealing with Jimmy the cook and his weekly written report of rupees spent was a bumpy road. One week his ledger showed that he had purchased nine dozen oranges, which was interesting inasmuch as none of us had seen either fruit or juice. “Get out of the orange business,” I told him. I was learning. The next week’s ledger showed that he had bought several dozen eggs, but none of those had made their way to our table. I was disappointed that he was so dumb, but I didn’t fire him. At least, not until a new scam was introduced.
I had been told about a pork butcher who had an actual indoor store, and who had learned to be a butcher in Canada. His shop was called the Pig Po. I went to see him and was very pleased with the clean condition and the quality of his meat. It was actually refrigerated. The butcher also spoke English well. I told the cook to buy pork, chicken, and eggs at this store, and to keep the receipts. It seemed for a while that the cook was following my rules, until one night when he served pork chops which were decidedly off. When Jimmy was putting platters on the table, I noticed he was wearing a new watch, which was an incredible luxury for a servant. He said it was a gift from his brother. Later in the evening, we all got sick.
One day Theresa told me that the butcher had phoned and wanted me to come to his shop. He told me that Jimmy had been buying bad meat from an inferior, dirty market, but had made a deal with the butcher’s clerk, who would give Jimmy phony receipts for double the amount he was actually spending, and they split the profit. The butcher had fired his clerk.
I called Frank to come home to fire Jimmy. It was always better if Sahib dealt with male servants, and I had to admit, I found Jimmy menacing. Frank said, “Jesus, this guy has been poisoning us,” and I agreed. “Well,” he continued, “I’m going to wait for him in the library behind my desk, and you bring Jimmy in and I will be very stern and civilized, but I’m going to scare him and then I’m going to fire him.”
I brought Jimmy to the door of the library, and as soon as Frank saw him, he leaped up and shouted, “You son of a bitch! You goddamned thief!” and he came roaring from behind his desk, as squires are wont to do, shouting profanities, and grabbed Jimmy by the collar of his shirt, and the belt of his pants, propelled him to the front door, and bump-ran him through the front door and through the front yard, with the intention of throwing him over the wall. But Jimmy was too big and the wall was too high. Frank, screaming, ordered Jimmy off the property immediately, called the guards to enforce it, and then returned, scarlet-faced, to the front door, where I was standing. “That was classy,” I said. “I thought so,” he replied. When we went back to the servants’ quarters to ensure that Jimmy was gone, we found his room empty except for pictures drawn of the hammer and sickle. It was obviously a sign to scare us.
