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University Daily Kansan Friday. April 20.1962
Unexpected Experiences With an
(Editor's note: The staff member who wrote this article was in Teheran, the capital of Iran, on September 10th, 1958. He went to Iran with his father, who was an official in the Inner Mongolia government agency which gave technical aid to underdeveloped countries.)
By Zeke Wigglesworth
When we arrived in Teheran, people told us that servants were very inexpensive, so one of the first things my parents did after we moved into our new house was to hire a house-boy.
Hardly had they let the word get out that they wanted one, when Bashar Ahmed came to apply for the opening.
He showed up at the front gate one morning with his brother Ali. Ali spoke some English but, as we soon found out, Bashar's command of English was limited.
We let the two Iranians in, and after the initial barking of our dachshund, Swartz, had quieted to the point of permissible hearing, we all retired to the terrace to start the hiring session.
The first order of business was a letter of recommendation from the Army colonel who had employed Bashar before us. This was given to Dad with a great flourish and smiles from the two brothers.
Ali took the fatal plunge.
"My brother very exceptional fine houseboy. Clean, work hard,very nice,very honest." he said.
Dad nodded his head and read the Letter. Ali waited until he was finished and then spoke again.
"My brother very clean. Very good. Exceptional fine. Nice houseboy."
"Bali, bali," he said. "Yes, yes."
He turned and mumbled something to Bashar, who then turned to Dad and nodded his head vigorously.
BASHAR TURNED and smiled at Mom and me. We smiled back. The dog chose to snarl and bare his teeth.
Next on the agenda was a health permit from the American Embassy, This, too, was given to my father with great flourish and smiles.
"See," said Ali, "my brother very clean. Not like coolie. Work hard. Honest. Exceptional fine houseboy. Nice."
Next came a letter from a friend down the block. She wrote that she had seen Bashar in operation, and that he was a marvel at a cocktail party and a whiz at the dinner table. Again, there were huge smiles as the letter was handed by Ali to Dad. Ali took the offensive again.
"My brother like to work here," he said. "He very clean, smart. Exceptional fine houseboy. Work hard, clean, nice."
Dad nodded his head and read the letter. After he had finished, he.
Mom, and the still baying pooch retired to the corner of the terrace where they held a whispered conversation.
While they were deliberating, I stared at Bashar. After being raised on a diet of Hollywood films and detective thrillers, my conception of a houseboy was one of a little Oriental with buck teeth and a towel over one arm. Bashar was certainly not the type.
HE STOOD a good two inches taller than my five-eight, and was wearing a natty double-breasted tweed coat and black pants. He had a little black mustache, like many Iranian men favor. My illusions were shot.
Mom and Dad, plus the stillgrowling Swartz, returned to the conference area.
Ali and Bashar jumped up and helped Mom into her chair. Ali almost lost an ear for his efforts, compliments of the dog. Dad turned to Ali as the two men sat down.
"We'll take him," he said. "Have him here at noon tomorrow. We think he'll be okay."
At the word "okay" Bashar looked at his brother inquiringly. Ali nodded his head and smiled hugely.
Bashar lept up from his chair and shook Dad's hand violently. He started to shake Mom's hand, but took a look at the dog, smiled at her and stepped back a few feet.
"Merci, merci, merci." he said.
"Thank you, thank you."
AFTER THE two had left, we sat around and talked the whole thing over. Coming from a middle class environment, we were all naturally elated at having a real, live houseboy around.
I had visions of myself lying in a lawn chair as Bashar dropped ripe grapes into my mouth.
Dad was having the time of his life, mentally using up all the time he would save by having Bashar wash the car. Mom, of course, had completely done away with housework of any kind. Dismissed forever were dishes, beds, floors, mops and brooms. Dad shook his head in wonderment.
"All this," he said, "for 30 bucks a month!"
Dad, mumbling to himself, went to the gate. There stood Bashar, in a tie, coat, and freshly polished shoes. "I work," he said, apologizing.
The next day was Friday, the Moslem Sunday, and the whole family intended to sleep in. At 6 a.m. in the morning, however, we were awakened by a pounding at the front gate.
"I work," he said, smiling.
Dad took him to the kitchen, still grumbling, and pointed at the stack of dirty dishes in the sink. Bashar nodded, took off his coat, rolled up his sleeves, and started in on the mess.
I WAS JUST getting back to sleep again when the house was filled with a horrible din. I heard Swartz barking, pots and pans banging, and shouts in Iranian—all coming from the kitchen.
I ran downstairs to see what was going on. I found Bashar on top of the kitchen table, covered with suds, waving a pot at the howling dog.
Taking Bashar into the kitchen, she pointed at the last egg remaining, and told him to get some more.
"Bad siya," he said. "Bad black." I was inclined to agree, and proved it by generously swatting the black one's backside with a rolled-up newspaper.
Bashar thanked me and returned, muttering, to the dishes. Shortly after noon the same day, the dog started barking again. This time, Mom found the houseboy in the bathtub, shouting at the top of his voice and waving a mop at Swartz.
"I need one dozen. You understand?" she asked.
AFTER DELIVERING the prescribed treatment for small, noisy dogs. Mom decided Bashar needed a rest. She was baking a cake, and had run out of eggs.
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"Yes, mum," he said. "One duh-
zen. I get."
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He hopped on his bicycle and rode off toward town.
Bashar nodded his head.
Three hours later, after Mom had decided the pooch had frightened him away permanently, Bashar was at the gate. She let him in, and all we could hear for the next few minutes were her shrieks of laughter.
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I was curious, and went to see what was happening. There stood Bashar, his hands filled with eggs. His bicycle basket was filled with eggs, the saddlebags on the back of the bike were filled with eggs. His coat pockets were filled with eggs, and he held another bag of eggs between his teeth.
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Mom finally quieted enough to ask him what on earth he was doing.
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Dad came downstairs and headed for the kitchen. Bashar was standing in the doorway with a broom.
That finished Mom for the rest of the afternoon.
"Sorry, mum," he said. "Not get one duh-zen. Got only 100."
For years, Dad had a reputation for being an omelet-maker par excellence. Every morning, he went to the kitchen and prepared one of his masterpieces for breakfast. For about a week, Bashar stood on the back porch and watched Dad making omelets. Then, one morning, he attacked.
"Good morning, Mr. Jim. Want breakfast? Omelet? I fry?" he said
"Not nice man. Good dog. Dog and me fight, okay. Dog and gardener, khoob neest (not good)," he said.
He chased the gardener off with a rake and toweled off the wet dog. He looked up at me.
Dad smiled the smile of the conceited chef.
It was about this time that Bashar decided to invade the kitchen. He did it by way of the back door.
"Well, if you really think you're able..," he said.
One day, the pooch was sunning himself in the garden, when the gardener turned the hose on him. This angered Bashar.
DURING THE next few months, we found that instead of hiring a houseboy, we had added another member to our family. Actually, Bashar had adopted us. He felt that it was his duty to act as mediator in all matters between the family and the rest of Iran. He even adopted the dog.
was radiant. If his had risen, Bashar's was a mountain. He gently poked a fork tine into the omelet. It gasped and gently collapsed on the plate. Dad put on his coat and mumbled something about not having enough time to eat. Bashar looked hurt.
TEN MINUTES later, Bashar carried a tray into the dining room. He set it before Dad with great care and handed him a fork.
Dad paled as he took the fork. If his omellets had been golden. Bashar's
"Whatsa matter?," he asked, "Mr. Jim not like omelet. Very good omelet. Yummm."
Bashar gave Mom only a few hard moments, but the one I'm sure she will always remember was the day he cleaned the chandelier.
Mom had been out in the kitchen while Bashar was setting everything up. She came out and sat down right under the board, completely unaware of the circus act going on above her.
He couldn't find a ladder, so he got an old piece of board and laid it across one corner of the balcony railing. By standing on his toes, he could just reach the top of the chandelier.
Our house was typically Iranian. The ceilings were very high. In the living room, the ceiling was two stories up. The rest of the second floor was taken up by bedrooms and a bathroom. Around the rooms was a balcony with a metal railing.
HANGING FROM the center of the ceiling was a huge glass chandelier with 60 watt bulbs in it. It had not been cleaned in a long time, and some of the bulbs had burned out. Bashar felt that it was time to clean it.
Bashar finished cleaning the chandelier, and was screwing in a light bulb when the board began to crack. He lept for the railing as pieces of board, old light bulbs and debris rained down on Mom. She gave a shriek and jumped back under the balcony. The dog, who was sunning himself beside her chair, yelped and ran into the kitchen as a light bulb exploded beside his ear.
Mom cautiously stuck her head out and looked up. Bashar stood on the
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