"Babu" and Other Evidence of British Imperialism

A simple walk is not so simple in Kolkata. Especially if you are tall, white and holding an expensive camera. Sidling through some street markets near our guest house today, I found myself cornered by an affable young man who motioned at my camera and pantomimed taking a picture with an invisible one of his own. He wanted me to photograph him and his friends, who were leaning nonchalantly on a brick wall a few feet away.

"See, sir? See? The clothes? Take picture, sir!" He presented his stall of Indian garments as if he were Vanna White revealing a series of vowels. He proudly draped his arm over a rack of shirts and I snapped a few shots. I took some more of his friends, who were more amused at him than me. The vendor asked me my name. I told him and then I asked him his. "Babu!" he said with a wide grin. At this, he and his friends broke out in gleeful cackling. Having taught middle school for a few years, I knew immediately that I had been played for some joke. Not quite knowing how to save face, I simply smiled more broadly and continued down the street.

As I walked away another man came up to me. "You know they were making some fun, right?" he said as we strode briskly down the street. He must have overheard the exchange with 'Babu'. "I got that impression," I replied. "Don't worry. But Babu is a bad name for Indians," he said with a sly glance in my direction. "Enjoy your stay in Kolkata," he concluded with a genuine smile and quickly passed ahead of me.

The term "Babu" should have rung some bells, for I had just read Rudyard Kipling's Kim, in which that exact term is used quite a bit. In Hindi it means "child", but the word was also used by the British as a way to refer paternalistically to their Indian servants and underlings. The term may not be as strong as some racial epithets used in America, but you get the point of the young vendor's joke when telling a clueless white man that his name was "Babu".

In sheer synchronicity to this experience, when I came back to the guest house, the caretaker Dinesh and a woman I

had never seen were cleaning our living quarters. The woman, dressed in a variegated sari, was on her hands and knees washing the floor and Dinesh was busying himself with our dirty dishes. In the past several days, Dinesh has replaced blown fuses, hustled tinkling tea trays up and down three flights of stares, run down the street to pick up take-out tikki masala for guests, demonstrated the proper use of the water purifier and gas stove in the kitchenettes, and sweated his way through a few loads of laundry. As far as I can tell, there are five floors to our guesthouse and at least two rooms on each floor, and Dinesh is the caretaker for all of them. Dinesh assured us the first night we were here that he was available 24 hours a day. All we had to do was press the call button in our rooms and he would come. So far, I have found this to be utterly true: a testament to our host's unerring hospitality and work ethic.

Admittedly, Jenna and I have been uncomfortable at times with Dinesh's stubborn geniality. After all, it is slightly embarrassing to have another grown person wash your dishes and wipe down your mirrors. The first time we pressed our button, we stood mortified at our doorway as we heard Dinesh's shoeless feet patter up the marble stairs.

Maybe 100 years ago, though, a person like me would have simply yelled "Babu!" down the hall, and a person like Dinesh would have responded. That would have been a shame for many reasons, but mostly it would have been a shame because it would have meant I would never have learned Dinesh's real name.