The family that lives in the garden shed

Last week, I moved in to the office.  The office is like a small bungalow that is attempting to be an office, so this is not as bad as it sounds.  It is in a fairly quiet area, with a green garden, where birds, cats and squirrels roam.

I am living with a colleague and there have been many discussions within the office about the need for us to have a guard and a cook.  I have repeatedly said that I am happy to cook for myself, an idea which is met with confusion, mirth or deep concern.  "But what would you cook?" I'm asked. I mumble about pasta with cheese and rice with curry.  They look at me sceptically, and glance at the cupboards full of crisps and chocolate, which we bought on our shopping trip.  As we filled the trolley full of junk food, it seemed like a brilliant idea, you know, in case of emergency. But now I see it does not make us look like competent self-sufficient people who know how to cook for ourselves.

So as soon as I'd arrived with all my stuff, I was told that a family had also moved in.  There was much excitement about this solution.  The father would be our guard, the mother would cook and clean for us.  Oh and there's a few children too, I'm told.  How many? I ask.  Maybe around 4.  4 kids, I don't understand, where will they all live?  Oh, there's a shed in the garden they'll stay in. I wonder how a family of 6 can live in a garden shed.  The answer I get is simple; they will have come from worse and they're lucky to have a shed. 

And so we all begin to settle in to our life at the office.  Sameena, who is our cook and maid, tries to pre-empt my tea making and tries to wash all my clothes every day unless I manage to intervene.  The children seem happy playing in the garden.  Their home/shed is just outside my bedroom window, so I cannot easily escape their lives.  When I try to sleep, I know that all 6 are bedding down in their shed, smaller than my (pretty small) room.  But it's strange how we're built to adjust. I start to feel used to their lives next to mine. 

A few days ago I bought some plastic balls and colouring books, which cost about 600 rupees (less that a fiver) for the children.  Confusion, confusion, confusion for a few seconds.  Then, Aroon took charge.  The eldest, at the grand old age of 7, quickly realised that the bright pink ball he clutched to his chest was something he could keep.  Shouting to the others, he ran as fast as he could throwing the ball in the air. 

The children shriek around the garden. I join in.  It's much more fun than law.  Then a few people in the office express concern about the noise.  They say it will have to stop. Our bosses are back next week and the children cannot play during the day and definitely must not come inside.   They'll only get in trouble if we don't stop it now.

With all my British sensibilities, this makes me angry.  It's their home, after all.  "If anyone shouts at those children I'll leave,” I say.  My colleague is now annoyed: "This is an office. You wouldn't let English kids play around an office either, you're only saying that because it's Pakistan."  In England this would never happen - I counter - because people are paid enough to not live in the garden sheds of offices. 

In this moment, I miss home.  The minimum wage.  Benefits.  Kids who all go to school. I miss being able to go out without being haunted by poverty.  I miss children being children, no matter how poor they may be. 

Later, once my anger has mellowed a bit, I am aware of my ethnocentricity in all this.  I know I have no right to impose my cultural sensibilities on people here.  I am criticising things which I can't possibly understand after 2 weeks.  People keep saying to me: "it's good to employ people, you give people jobs, you take them off the street.”   I suppose this is right, but I just want the children to be allowed to play. 

Now they are quiet and stay out of sight all day.  If I do see them, they're carrying their balls around in plastic bags.  Late in the evening and at night, they play.  Often, their laughing and shouting stops me sleeping, but I'd rather not sleep than them never play.

As the days pass, and the children seem to adapt to the new arrangements, I too start to accept it.  Each time I see them, the feeling of unfairness in the pit of my stomach is a little less painful. 

For better or for worse, we are built to adapt.