The thirty-odd years spent abroad as a diplomatic spouse were interesting, to say the least. Besides the upheavals created by moves, settling down in different homes, domestic help problems, endless entertainment and numerous schools for our son, every new city in a new country made one’s powers of observation go into overdrive. On average, it took about three months to settle down, and thereafter, everything novel was experienced, thought about and discussed.
For me, the greatest reward of a peripatetic life was to note the cultural differences between life in India and the ways of another country. All of the countries we visited as a family either made us vehemently affirm what we believed in or modify our previously held convictions, making us less judgemental about what we saw around us. There were some epiphanies too, especially regarding our Western-oriented education, which had led us to unquestioningly believe in the superiority of Western ways. There were some encounters with insidious racism that made our blood boil before it could cool by understanding the ways of history and its consequences.
The White race would always be the White race, and it was up to us to find ways to come to terms with this fact. After all, we were not tourists on brief holidays but temporary residents who had to function effectively on a daily basis. This was especially true for our school-going children – every three years in an international school brought new classmates and teachers, which, in hindsight, would become a significant part of their formation as human beings. And we parents had to, willy-nilly, respond in meaningful ways to their problems and offer useful advice – or so we hoped.
Our postings in the Arab world and Afghanistan called for a different type of response and adjustment. Their cultural identity and social practices were distinct from what we had experienced so far. In their personal lives, diplomats can live according to their own beliefs and values, without any pressure from the locals to change their stance on any issue. However, there is no stopping anyone from observing different beliefs and the contradictions they may encompass. In English-speaking countries, it is a different story. The English language is a boon, allowing access to the media, literature and popular culture. In Europe, language differences can be a problem. Many Europeans know English to varying degrees, but will choose to speak in their own language, making it clear that if you do not understand it, it is your problem.
Apart from France and Germany, other European countries are quite small, both in size and population. However, whether big or small, the people of each country are very aware of their unique identity and spend ample time emphasising this to temporary residents like us, who have easy access to them because of our diplomatic status. I cannot count the number of lunches and dinners where I have been given detailed explanations of how each group is “unique” in terms of language, customs and character stereotypes.
For instance, I’ve often been told that Swiss Germans are different from other Swiss, and this difference makes living in one Swiss city distinct from another. Thus, living in Zürich can be quite different from living in Montreux or Basel, or even Neuchâtel. Considering that the whole of Switzerland has a population of only seven million – about the same as South Delhi, maybe? – I am amazed at how people of a small, highly developed nation can go to such lengths to pinpoint the differences among themselves.
Europeans are also, generally, quite snobbish. If members of a family can trace their roots back to a certain area for three to four generations, they consider themselves quintessential insiders, having the birthright to behave in an uppity way. Of course, such families are also inheritors of small or large fortunes, with a few classy chateaus thrown in for good measure.
Having visited quite a few of these chateaus during our various travels in Europe, I must say they are quite beautiful. Not all are large – this fact quite defied my preconceived notions – but they are very quaint, with beautiful (though somewhat ragged) upholstery, carpets and curtains, ornate gold-framed portraits of ancestors and stylish furniture. Given the overall demographic profile of Europe, the inheritors are generally super-senior citizens, frequently with barely enough cash flow to maintain the premises. In fact, inviting visitors like us to tour them – for a fee – is often one way of generating money to keep them running.
And yet, such genteel poverty does not deter them from having a view on the “immigrants” in their midst – or even about sari-clad spouses like yours truly. I can recall many daytime gatherings where I was looked at askance: What is she doing here among us? Why is she asking all these questions? At least, this is what their eyes seemed to convey, quite forgetting that it was their Diplomatic Wives’ Association that had invited me in the first place.
The women of this species can be identified quite easily. They all arrive in old pricey cars, dine in the city’s best restaurants and shop in the most expensive stores. They are often, though not always, blonde. And they are slim – one might even say too thin – with crow’s feet around their eyes and lips, and gnarled hands. They spend a fortune on their heavily coiffured hairdos and wear rather large stone jewellery, shiny patent shoes, red nail polish and, of course, designer clothes. It is the latter that often proves to be their undoing.
I remember one summer’s social calendar being fuller than ever, with numerous dinner parties and early evening receptions. It is natural that anyone worth their salt would have a garden full of flowers– especially roses and rose vines – in the prime weeks of a European summer. And if you do, what better way to show it off than to invite the city’s who’s who – diplomats do get included in this list sometimes – to an evening reception when days are long and the weather balmy, with the above-mentioned vines of roses and other summer flowers wafting their fragrance on the summer air?
The story below is a real experience that took place one gorgeous summer evening in Geneva. My husband and I were the only Indians present, and I was quite prepared for an evening conducted in French, of which I know very little. Not expecting to be part of any meaningful conversation, I spent the evening watching the other guests come and go.
So, I found myself dressed in a light summer sari, walking through our host’s fancy living room (with my husband) towards the garden beyond, escorted by a nose-in-the-air maid dressed in a black skirt, white prim blouse, a spotless eyelet apron and shiny black court shoes. She had already sized us up, her lips fixed in an automatic smile but her eyes conveying something else. The hostess saw us and gushed forward, giving me an affectionate hug, kissing me three times on the cheeks in true Swiss style. She did the same with my husband while I walked forward to be subjected to the same by her banker husband. It was all very posh: the house, the maid, the hosts, the garden and the guests. Soon, the titbits came around served in silver trays with the mandatory lace doilies setting off both the silver and the food.
I looked around. We knew some people, but not all. Everyone was talking the way people do at these receptions: wine glass in one hand and titbits in the other, shifting body weight from one foot to the other. They were dressed to the nines – designer clothes, no doubt, and from the finest labels. While I do not wear western outfits myself (other than casual trousers), I have always been interested in clothes and patterns, colours and cuts.
And so my eye caught one of the women wearing what I knew was a Prada outfit, and I immediately recalled where I had first seen it: in the window of the Prada store in Rêve. Yes, there it was, a pista green blanket check skirt and jacket with fringed cuffs. It didn’t look very grand, but it was a Prada alright. The wearer was speaking animatedly in rapid French, and the way she cast her eyes around, it was obvious that she knew she was completely “with it”.
And then ... Mid-sentence, I saw her face change. She stopped talking, a quick grimace crossing her face. I looked around and saw what she had just seen. There she was—another woman, just like her, dressed in a Prada outfit that was EXACTLY the same: a pista green blanket check skirt and jacket with fringe cuffs. And she seemed heading towards her …
That was enough. The speaker quickly ended her conversation with her interlocutor and began to move away. I looked around.
The newcomer in the similar Prada had also noticed her and had turned away.
That was it – so much money spent on something that someone else of your kind also had. It was enough to make you feel curdled and angry. I’ll conclude by telling you there was yet another corollary to this one. As we were leaving, I saw a latecomer enter the garden. She, too, was in a Prada outfit: the same pista green blanket check skirt and jacket with fringe cuffs.
Excerpted with permission from ‘The Devils Wear Prada’ by Preeti Singh in The Other Side of Diplomacy, edited by Jayshree Misra Tripathi, Westland.
