Born to be served

Two days in to my time in Lahore...

As I sit in temporary darkness, I can hear Maqbool, who is a servant at the house I am staying, trying to force the errant generator in to life. Power cuts are dealt with by Lahorites in a matter of fact way, and seem to occur at least every few hours. If I'm in the house, I'll instantly know that power has gone as I'll hear the sound of Maqbool's sandals slipping and sliding on the marble floor, as he tries to get to the generator going as quickly as possible and before anyone in the house is inconvenienced.

My awkward relationship with Maqbool began this morning, when I asked him in my best English, if i talk louder i will definitely be understood, way if I could make myself some breakfast. Of course, he said yes, and so I walked brazenly into his kitchen and started opening cupboards and banging plates etc. I was almost immediately aware that I had made mistake, although it took a little while to realise what exactly it was. Maqbool hovered behind me trying to anticipate my every move so that he could offer me my required utensil before I tried to find it myself. Before my toast had had toasted, the penny had dropped. I am not supposed to cook, or even make breakfast, for myself.

Being served is just an every day part of life. On the way to work I hear, 'don't worry Liana my driver will take you'. At the office, it's 'don't wash up, that's someone job', 'don't move those glasses....' etc etc. My mother will be so sad that all the 'clear up after yourself' ethos she taught me so persistently carries no weight here.

I mentioned to my colleague that I found it difficult to adapt to and she argued that it was important to employ people to do things for you whenever you can, because people need the work and the money. You are helping, not hindering. And in some sense, I am sure she is right. But the injustice of it is staggering to me. Coming here as a foreigner immediately means my status is high. And status here is everything. I am labelled a lawyer, no matter how much I protest that I am not qualified. Indeed, a lawyer from London. Does it make any difference that in my mind I'm still sitting my GCSES?

I'm afraid this post does not do justice to the friendly, hospitable people I have met, who have fed me and put me up and are doing some brilliant lawyering here (more on this later). Being served is endemic, and to not have a servant, or a driver if you can afford it would be like me not logging in to Facebook every day. I just wanted to write about the people who aren't written about. And I won't write about them anymore, because I won't ever get to know them.

When i returned my tray to the kitchen after my breakfast faux pas, I felt great sadness as I saw Maqbool jump and look anxious, as he was just doing his own thing, thinking there was no-one around. He got it together in a matter of seconds though, and was all smiles and attentiveness. Then later, while I was waiting for my driver, I watched jealously, wanting to join in, whilst some servants of other houses (one of them only a boy) were playing and splashing each other with water from a tap by the road. I am quite sure that if they had known I had been watching, they would have stopped and smiled demurely until I was out of sight.

It is their role to be serve and mine to be served and I cannot be part of their world, however much I try to make my own breakfast.