Established value systems have changed
MY FATHER was a schoolteacher. He took great pride in knowing the names of all the kids in the school and something about their home circumstances as well. He knew who didn’t bring lunch that day and who needed a pair of shoes, a new shirt or blazer and tried to assuage their challenges in any way he could.
There were many teachers like him who discharged their social responsibility without fanfare or acknowledgement. In fact, any acknowledgement would have embarrassed them.
Around the mid-1960s he decided that Durban was becoming too dangerous to bring up children.
Apparently, he saw schoolchildren hanging around the local tearoom (I love that word) and smoking. So we were bundled away from Durban with its running water and electricity to places where you could have one but not the other, if you were lucky.
We ended up in a small mill town called Sezela on the south coast. I was so envious of my urban relatives with their indoor toilets, electricity, running water, streetlights, roads and buses that it took me a while to appreciate the beauty of the people and the place.
It turned out to be the most memorable episode in my life and gave me a different perspective on life.
It was also the place where I had my first interactions with white people. Amazing, isn’t it?
Many of us lived much of our lives without coming into contact with them. It was the first time I could actually see how people were divided according to race.
The white area had beautiful and spacious houses with sprawling gardens. It was not unusual to see boats parked in the yard. They had a club with perfectly manicured lawns for bowls, huge snooker tables, a sparkling swimming pool and other facilities. I worked at this club as a waiter thanks to Uncle Joseph.
The club had a hall and it was sometimes used for shows and the waiters would take orders from the patrons and return with their drinks without much fuss. It all changed with the Follies show. We waiters were not allowed to serve drinks while the show was on because the kindly whites didn’t want to corrupt our morals.
Waiters had to get their drinks order through a service hatch because we were not allowed into the bar. I don’t know why they allowed the barman in though. One gentleman, who was sitting in the bar, asked me to take drinks to his wife on the terrace. I had no idea who his wife was, so I delivered the drinks to the prettiest woman there and said it was from her husband. The man sitting next to her looked confused but I had done my job. The man in the bar must have realised that his wife didn’t get the drinks and so he confronted me and threatened to have me fired.
Then he asked me to pay for the drinks and to point out the lady to whom I had given the drinks. I explained to him that I didn’t know who his wife was but I assumed he must have been married to the most beautiful woman there and therefore I looked for the most beautiful woman.
Obviously, I was in deep trouble and I was warned not to mess up again. Well, I promised to behave and serve people in my short white waiter’s jacket. Later that same evening I brought the last round of drinks to the table I was serving. The man looked kindly at me and gave me a generous tip of 2 cents. I thanked him by saying it looked like he needed the money more than I did.
My next job was at the golf course. In those days the caddies had to wait in the sweltering sun until the caddy master called us. I had a great time at the course until one gentleman decided to slice his tee shot into the bush.
He looked at me and I looked at him.
He pointed with his club towards the bush. I’m not sure whether he wanted me to go into the bush to look for his ball but he wasn’t pleased with me at all. Then he told me to look for his ball. I told him that there were more snakes in the bush than he could ever imagine. That job didn’t last long either, though I don’t know why.
I was beginning to think I was useless and unemployable even on an occasional basis, but I realised that we had something they did not. We could make samoosas or, as they called it, sirmoozers.
It was like a drug for them, and my mother became their drug dealer by default. There is nothing more painful than to see the delicious samoosas being graciously prepared by my mother for Mrs (I shall leave the name out). Diwali was like Woodstock for them and my mother kindly indulged their addiction at our expense. They had a strange influence on her because her accent started to change when they were around.
I was getting really worried about this transformation but her accent disappeared when I asked her about it. She gave me a long lecture on how we had a responsibility to be hospitable and generous.
“Do they have the same responsibility to be hospitable and generous?” I asked after she had finished her lecture.
“Why is it that we send stuff to them on Deepavali and they don’t send stuff to us on Christmas?”
She didn’t answer.
In her own way she was no different to many of our parents. They would show their appreciation by preparing food regardless of whether it was family, friend or foe.
Today, the younger generations interact with all races without contradiction, and the need to feel inferior in any way is no longer an issue.
But, somehow, these interactions have changed the established value systems. Our parents might find some of our acquired habits a bit strange. Weddings and birthday parties were social events where no expense was spared and no relative was left out. Strangers could gatecrash and enjoy a meal without being challenged in any way.
Maybe it’s the ingrained need to be equal that still haunts us. I mean, why should we invite guests to a birthday party at a restaurant and expect these guests to pay for their own meals?
Maybe, just maybe, we should give them samoosas instead of our souls.