In 1926, Gladys Pearce, fresh from America, was new to routines in British India. Although she admired the tailor, she let the cook know she was not as naive as he’d hoped.

In my previous post, A Reluctant Memsahib, I shared a little about Gladys being thrust into her new role. She was expected to have servants, as wife of Ken (American forester for the Indian government) even when she preferred to do things herself. Here are a few more fun notes from her diary, revealing what that was like for her.

1926, Gladys Pearce

Today a dhurzee (tailor) came to sew, bringing his hand-model Singer sewing machine. He spread a sheet on the floor of the veranda and sat cross-legged on it, his machine before him.

He made slip-covers for the naked sofa and chair. The machine hummed busily as he turned the wheel with his right hand while guiding the work with his left hand and toes. As for the rest of my help, including the cook:

Freddy is running everything and enjoying being Butler again instead of Camp Boy. He submitted proposed menus for the day on my early morning tea tray. Housekeeping is child’s play for me, so I said, “Dining out today and tomorrow, Freddy, and tiffin for Master only today. Send the Vegetable au Gratin and Mengo Phool. Is the milk boiling?’

He answered, “Freddy take care, Madam not worrying.”

There on the veranda was the steaming water and milk, very definitely boiled. It’s getting harder to remember that there exists a land where you can drink water out of the tap without boiling it.

There are so many new foods here: pungent curries, sweet-smelling mangos, luscious papayas served with a spot of lime juice, and little red plantains, ripened to a king’s taste. But meats and vegetables are usually quite droopy and best seen only when served at the table. So while I love many new foods I also miss many from home.

We have the usual expected staff of servants, who Freddy manages except for Frances (our driver). Frances’ little family lives in the compound; with a modest wife, daughter about six years old, and a fat baby son. His daughter frequently watches the baby under a palm tree beside their doorstep as he lies on a reed mat, kicking his heels in the warm breeze. He’s clad only in a bright pink cap and his little brown skin. The laundry problem for infants in India is solved with the greatest of ease! No clothes, no laundry!

 Whenever I go to the kitchen Frances’ family scampers indoors. Perhaps they hold the common belief that if I admire their baby too much it will call the attention of some evil spirit.

Our cook has been too ambitious. He’s fat and quite impressive in his white dhoti, but also has had very fat ideas about how to run my kitchen.

He insists that for just Ken and me he needs a dozen eggs each day, and other foods in like quantity. Even on days we dine and lunch out, he still insists he needs a dozen eggs. Yet he still produces a cake for tea about the size of your hand. My remonstrances have always fallen on deaf ears and offend his dignity.

Today I asked, “What did you do with the raisins for the cake?” As he turned, the movement shook a shower of raisins from the fold of his dhodi. He stooped to pick them up and three eggs rolled from somewhere to land at his feet.

He had expected a new bride to notice less. No more compromising from me. He left, and I suspect word is already circulating about how I sacked him.

More stories about the life of Gladys Pearce in 1920s British India:

• A Reluctant Memsahib
• A Mongoose Surprise
• A Story About a Love Story
• 1926: Silent Valley
• Adventures in the Attic
• 1929: New Motherhood in Ooty
• Ken in the Raj
• 1918: A Day She Beat the Boys
• A Naughty Baby Elephant
• 1929: Dearest Funny Baby
• One Less Crocodile

These stories are excerpts from a soon-to-be-released book, Copyright 2020, by Laurie Winslow Sargent. Subscribe to this blog to learn more.

[Image by Rachael Gorjestani , Unsplash]