A Non-resident Indian child

Running down the stairs, late for work, you glance out of the window and promptly see the last thing you want to see. The unexpected lurks even in leafy squares, I suppose.

A wisp of a girl, no more than perhaps twelve, teetering precariously on her toes. She is trying to push a garbage- bag into one of the massive disposal bins positioned behind the bushes at the near end of the square. She also looks distinctly South Asian. You pause, warning bells ringing, for you’ve seen her somewhere, and her attire, even from a distance, marks her as a not-so-privileged outsider. As you watch, she loses her grip on the binliner which is almost as big as she is; it then falls back on her, struggling as she is to keep her balance. But she’s quick, and jumps out of the way. Warily, she looks around at the faceless windows, seeking out hidden eyes like mine, for the garbage rules explicitly state that the liners have to be left inside the bin. She is, of course, too short to be able to manage that. Tentatively, she pushes the bag closer to the bin. Again, she looks around anxiously, as if sizing up her options; then abruptly turns, and runs into the nearest common doorway. The bag has been left behind to face the ire of the next civic minded middle class resident that comes along.

En route to work, I mull over what I have seen, decide that I am jumping to too many conclusions too soon, and conveniently decide to leave well be. The next week, an Australian couple, newly arrived, mention seeing an obviously underage child pushing a toddler’s pram, then feeding the baby from a bottle, at a communal gathering. The children were accompanying a young Indian couple who appeared to be the toddler’s parents. The young Australian woman, initially curious, then increasingly angry, had been quietly asking questions. The young girl, it turned out, had been brought over from India to work as a maid (or, to use the appropriate Indian English term, a servant). She did not go to school. The couple were from Delhi, and the short, plump, pleasant man is G. G was doing an MBA at London Business School (which costs £ 45,000, btw). His taller, slim, smart and bespectacled wife, A, was a stay at home mother (a Danish friend has since labelled her ‘an international lady of leisure’). We talk, I promise to enquire further, and keep her informed about what I propose to do.

I am in an uncomfortable quandary. If this is child labour, I have a statutory responsibility to notify the appropriate agencies. And indeed, if this had happened at work, the evidence, as it stood, was sufficient for me to pick up the phone and make a referral to Children and Families Social Services. CFSS would then, of course, follow due procedure and investigate.

But this is not work. This is home, and I am part of the same closely knit, uniquely co-operative community to which the employer/?exploiter couple belong. There are a range of delicate issues to be considered, from checking whether the administrators are alert to the situation, and whether they have a policy regarding such issues, to whether a formal investigation would bring tabloidesque attention onto all of us and whether I can manoeuvre this human relations minefield with sufficient tact.

Further discreet investigations reveal that the couple in question and we have mutual friends. These friends, when queried, respond curiously. The man is blunt, and says, “It’s obvious yaar, the girl is underage and is being kept as some sort of maid, she’s not going to school or anything, she is being exploited, but what can you do about it?” The woman, an economist, stiffens defensively, and says, “But the girl is probably having a much better life here than she would in India”.

A careful debate follows, the Lady watchful, me tactful, the woman’s partner supportive of my concerns, and she progressively defensive. This is familiar ground. I know the Chicago Boys-Milton Friedman argument on child labour. I have a number of counter-arguments, beginning from the fact that from a behavioural perspective, short term fixes are guaranteed to perpetuate long-term inequities, to the fact that a lack of education renders a child labourer fit for only menial adult jobs (and a lifetime of teetering on the poverty line) as well. What she calls economics, I call behaviour. Her husband points out the lack of empirical evidence for the Chicago theory. I mention my legal responsibilities. At this, the woman goes quiet, suddenly looking at me as if I am some sort of dangerous animal.

Later, I speak to the Social Services Manager I share my office with. She is Bangladeshi, and informs me that wealthy South Asians and Middle-easterners are ‘notorious for this sort of thing’. She suggests that I call Childline. I do, and they are very helpful. They explain ‘the legal black hole of imported child labour’ to me [This refers to the fact that once a High Commission has issued a visa (on whatever grounds) to a child au pair (who could well be fraudulently presented to the HC as a relative), then that automatically renders the child labourer ‘legit’. Children and Families Social Services, in general catastrophically overstretched, often clutch this straw to sidestep a culturally complicated investigation]. They suggest that I call the NSPCC, who have a statutory responsibility to investigate.

Which I do. The NSPCC guarantees the reporter confidentiality. It has diplomatic ways of investigating, which is reassuring. They do an ‘impact assessment’ (which has it’s origins in enlightened Bangladeshi child labour policy) that focusses on the child’s best interests (and in culturally complex cases, that of the family of origin).

Which brings us to the final (non) denouement. The administrators (who I’ve quietly included in the loop) inform me that the couple has suddenly left. I do know that G’s MBA runs until July, which means they may have been discreetly warned, and are possibly still in the city. Alternatively, he could be doing his end-of-course project elsewhere.

So, if you see a short, plump, chocolate-faced, smiling Indian MBA from LBS (whose name begins with G) and/or his taller, slim, smart, bespectacled wife (A) with a toddler and an underage maid/au pair in tow, please call NSPCC or your local National Child Welfare agency, once you’ve figured out their address (of the couple, that is). And if I spot them anywhere in town, that is precisely how I intend to proceed.

Further reading here , here , here and here. For the feudal Indian perspective on child labour, note the artistic modification (courtesy your friendly neighbourhood Indian wiki vandal) of the first reference at the bottom of this Wikipedia page on Child Labour.