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Consensual research is possible when different identities are understood and accepted, not assuming that there is equality across all researcher and research participants involved ... (Sultana, 2007:382)

82 Feminist research requires recognising and breaking down power differentials between the researcher and researched (Letherby, 2003; Oakley, 2000; Reinharz, 1992). But the research encounter is an intrusion, an intervention (Stacey, 1991, cited in Thapar-Björkert, 1999:60) and feminist attempts to change manipulative malestream research processes can themselves be implicated in exploitation (Addison and McGee, 1999, cited in Kirsch, 2005:2163). For instance,

relationship boundaries are often set by researchers. Letherby felt ‘irritation and anger’ towards some of her respondents when they tried to overstep her

understandings of an empathetic relationship (2003:111). Conversely,

respondents who do not share the researcher’s interests and commitments may not want a ‘friendly’ purposive conversation to develop into greater intimacy (Cotterill, 1992). Sultana’s (2007) respondents laughed off her overtures of friendship because of the social-economic gap and her passing presence in their lives. In a project involving four different groups of women, with me – the

diasporic researcher – in the space in between, Otherness was bound to be multi-dimensional (Kitzinger and Wilkinson, 1996; Sultana, 2007; Thapar- Björkert and Henry, 2004). Also, I was sceptical about incorporating 60 new long-term relationships into my already full life. Alternative feminist arguments appeared more insightful: power is not embodied in me the researcher, but instead ‘constituted in the relationship’ between my respondents and me (Henry, 2007:71); and the intention to do non-exploitative feminist research may be undermined by a (unidirectional) temporary allegiance to sisterhood (Reinharz, 1992) as direct benefit to the respondents cannot be guaranteed. A less

exploitative stance would include recognising beforehand my (malleable) position in relation to my respondents (Kirsch, 2005). Thus, I decided a courteous

demeanour would suffice, unless a respondent suggested keeping in touch, and that I would not prevaricate when I was asked questions. And so my tussle with power commenced on Day 1 in the field:56 _{I decided whom to invite to speak, but}

who took up the invitation was not up to me. From this moment on, I also swung like a pendulum between ‘insider’ and ‘outsider’, never quite fully making it either way (Mullings, 1999; Sultana, 2007; Thapar-Björkert and Henry, 2004).

56 _{The Indian data collection took nearly two months over three visits. The UK data}

83 Given my social location, arranging interviews was most straightforward with the UK academics, despite my readings of racial politics. I searched

humanities and health and social sciences staff lists on websites of universities located in my target areas, and emailed (Appendix A) over several weeks, 82 senior faculty members with feminism/gender-related research interests. The academics and I were at ease with this method of initial communication. A moment of panic occurred early on, when one academic seemed uncertain about my finding enough participants:

Thank you for your email and your invitation to take part in your fieldwork. I haven’t ever used the services of a paid domestic cleaner, so am not able to help you, I’m afraid. I wish you well with your research and hope you manage to find a sample of academics who fit your criteria.

Eventually this doubt was unfounded. Sixty-two women replied, of whom 24 did not outsource cleaning and 21 of those who did outsource agreed to participate, most commonly because they found the topic interesting. For instance, when Bridget57 _{replied to say she did not have time to be interviewed, she also wrote}

about her experience of outsourcing and her views on the issue:

Hi Lotika … It’s a great idea for a project. … I have, in the past employed a cleaner (two times, 2 hrs a week), a nanny (shared) and currently employ a gardener (male, 4 hrs a month) …

Otherwise, in the pre- and post-interview communications and the interview itself, I did not feel an outsider any more than I did in India because of my diasporic identity. All the academics were courteous, appeared to answer my questions thoughtfully, and only one failed to turn up. But she apologised and I met her on another day. Two contacted me well in time to change interview times, sparing me inconvenience.

Contacting academics in India was harder as details of research interests and email addresses were often not available on institutional websites. I obtained some contact details via friends of friends and family members and emailed 15 academics (Appendix A) before my field visit; worryingly, only two women

57 _{All respondent names are psuedonyms (English Christian names for the UK}

respondents and Indian Hindu first names for the Indian respondents). The service-users name are in roman and service-providers’ names are in italics.

84 responded before I left the UK. I later learned that university-linked email was not their preferred form of communication. Phone numbers were freely

exchanged, and I had to do some cold-calling, which I find uncomfortable. Meetings could not be booked well in advance, because these senior academics often had to attend institutional meetings at short notice. Sometimes arranging a meeting took several calls/texts, making me edgy throughout my (limited) time in India. However, the much higher reliance on paid domestic help in India meant I needed to contact fewer academics.58 _{Finally, 20}59 _{of the 38 women I contacted}

agreed to participate (again, many found my topic interesting), though one eventually declined as family issues arose all three times we arranged to meet.

Gaining access to the UK service-providers was also challenging. Gregson and Lowe (1994a) struggled to find cleaners because they work alone and are not ‘visible’. I did not have difficulty finding cleaning service-providers. But contrary to expectations (Letherby, 2003; Tatano Beck, 2005), women labelled as

marginalised are not always willing to talk. Several women ignored my initial attempt to contact them. Others prevaricated, while some refused bluntly: ‘I’d rather clean for my mother than get interviewed!’ Eventually, I interviewed 26 of the 67 women I had in various ways contacted. Two women were known to me previously. Five were working for service-users known to me or to colleagues. Here the snowballing stalled and I had to look elsewhere. Two women (one ex- agency worker60_{) responded to my post on a feminist network webpage. I found}

17 women by searching Google for domestic cleaners’ websites and adverts on Gumtree and Yell.com.61 _{Further snowballing led to the last two respondents.}

Working arrangements varied, from undeclared work to running a quasi-

agency,62 _{thus I interviewed}63 _{more respondents than I had planned for adequate}

data for each type of working arrangement. I emailed (Appendix A), texted or cold-called to make contact and I was never comfortable making the first call.

58 _{Domestic outsourcing is generally more common in non-Western countries (ILO, 2013).} 59 _{One respondent was a Sri Lankan national but had been living and working in the}

target region for many years.

60 _{I interviewed Georgia as everyone I talked to about my research had a view on it, and}

these general conversations added to my understanding of the structure of paid domestic work.

61 _{Gumtree is an international online space for classifieds with country-specific websites.}

Yell.com is a search engine for local businesses.

62 _{See Appendix E.}

85 Some respondents were motivated by my offer of a cash gift.64 _{A few were}

intrigued by my topic:

I've just read through your email... wow how interesting!! I would be more than happy to meet you for an interview and help you in any way I can. (Sheila)

As I had expected, the Indian service-providers lacked access to e-

communication/texting and I had three options. I could hang around in public parks in middle-class residential areas, where these women often congregated during their afternoon break; or visit their homes with an informant (Arun65_{); or}

make contact through service-users known to family and friends. Due to time constraints I ruled out the first option. I approached 20 workers through Arun and service-users, and nine via snowballing. The higher positive response rate in this group (24/29 contacted women were interviewed) may be due to the culture of reciprocity embedded in many work relationships in India. Kalpana, whom I met through a service-user, bought her cooking-gas cylinder on the black market. Whenever she chanced upon a vendor, she arranged to have a cylinder delivered to this service-user’s residence. It is likely Kalpana agreed to talk to me because I approached her through this service-user. But later she herself asked me to talk to her sister, whereas some others approached through service-users were unable to find time to meet me. Hence, I do not think the women were coerced to meet me, although deference could have played a part.

The young domestic workers Mattila approached may have consented to talk because they were ‘used to obeying their parents, their employers’ (2011:83). So might have Asha, the first woman I talked to in a slum.66 _{I approached Asha}

through Arun, a well-respected ‘elder’ of the slum, and even in my simplest Indian attire, my middle-classness stood out (Letherby, 2003) in a part of town where everything appeared dull and faded in the dust and heat of high summer. I indicated to Asha that she did not have to be deferential: I introduced myself by my first name and sat next to her on her bed. But ingrained cultural practices

64 _{I discuss this point later.} 65 _{A gardener known to me.}

66 _{Slum: ‘a cluster of closely packed [poorly built tenements mostly of a temporary}

nature] … marked by the absence of almost all basic amenities … [in] unhygienic conditions, and [with] inadequate sanitary and safe drinking water facilities’ (Duggal, 2010:11).

86 cannot be wished away with a snap of a finger. Asha’s sister-in-law and another neighbour came and sat down on the floor next to us within a few minutes of starting the interview. Later, I asked them if they would talk to me now that they had heard Asha’s interview, and they agreed. A few other women introduced by Arun asked me to talk to other women they knew. The monetary gift at the end of the interview may have been a reason for the interest, but it is fair to say I am only conjecturing here.67 _{One woman I directly approached in the slum refused}

outright, saying that talking about her life and problems made her tense, she preferred not to think about it. Raghuram (1999) reported some Indian female domestic workers refused to be interviewed because they were not happy to reveal they were working as such whereas a few others (Raghuram, 2001) refused because they were too busy. Thus, I believe my conscious attempt to be

respectful reduced the influence of deference on consent to a level that is not necessarily absent in individualist cultures like the UK. Watts (2006) used senior management as gatekeepers in her research on experiences of women civil

engineers and noted that a degree of coercion in finding participants could not be ruled out.

The issue then arises of proving consent. My consent forms (Appendix A) were a product of Western feminist understandings of ethical research, and offered respondents the option to read/amend transcripts and a summary of the research findings. These practices assume a certain level of literacy and open channels of communication. All the academics and UK service-providers (except one) had access to email. A few in all three groups requested the transcript and everyone asked for the summary. I had planned to ask those Indian service- providers who were illiterate to put their thumbprint on the consent form. But two Indian researchers told me that unfortunately people have been cheated of their legal rights in this way so I might encounter reluctance, and I did.

Consequently, I gained verbal consent but I did not offer a transcript copy and the summary. Some women were living in temporary accommodation, some moved frequently, and posting transcripts did not seem a secure option in a place where the public–private divide was more ideological than real. Also most of them were illiterate, so someone else would have read the transcript to them. I

87 did not mention the summary because of the risk of raising their expectations as to how the research might benefit them.

My previous research had shown similarities in housework across ethnically distinct higher-educated socio-economic groups (Singha, 2015).

Therefore, there were few differences in the final questionnaires and the (evolving) interview schedule for the two service-user groups (Appendix B) except for some culture-specific direct probes. I intended to gather similar data for the service- providers to examine similarities and differences between their own housework and the housework they did for a living. So I used the same list of housework tasks for the UK service-providers and some questions in the (evolving) topic schedule mirrored the questions for the service-users (Appendix B; Hondagneu- Sotelo, 2001). But my pilot work showed that the living and work conditions of the Indian service-providers differed markedly from the other three groups, which meant their understandings of their work were intricately bound with their

‘broader lives’, as also noted in Jaipur by Mattila (2016). Thus I had to modify my approach to a life-history-style interview, asking the women where they were born, why they migrated, etc. before asking them about their work.68 _The

consistent disinvestment in the work per se also meant I had to approach the topic differently (see Appendix B). For logistical reasons, I interviewed service- providers and service-users within the same time period in both countries.

I soon discovered that when and where the interview happened was often not in my hands. The time and place convenient for the respondent (or what they thought would be convenient for me!) was often not best for me. Most academics met me in their office. In India, doors could be open, and the interviews were frequently interrupted by staff and students with queries. I felt more in control of the interview in the UK, where the door was usually closed. Thapar-Björkert, (1999) also noted cross-cultural differences in notions of privacy disrupting the Western-style research process. Eight UK service-users and service-providers were interviewed in cafés. Background noise makes transcription harder and I was hyper-alert to noise during these interviews, which could be distracting. One UK service-provider and one service-user were interviewed over Skype. The sound fluctuated, which was frustrating, especially because I had wanted to meet the

68 _{Lutz (2011) had the same experience in her research among migrant domestic workers}

88 service-provider in her house. But she had (kindly) dismissed my suggestion as she lived several miles away.

Noise and privacy were particular problems in the Indian service-

providers’ interviews. Five interviews conducted in service-users’ properties had no interruptions, but in the slum dwellings, doorways were often only loosely covered with cloth in the day, and people and children simply walked in, sometimes out of curiosity (see also Dickey, 2000a). Noise from outside could drown voices inside. Some women were interviewed sitting on a charpoy (Indian bed) in a service-alley.69 _{Passers-by occasionally stopped to listen. Inside, the}

rattle of cheap electric fans/coolers significantly interfered with the audio- recording. I had to make a choice between the ethics of turning off fans in the sweltering heat and inconveniencing the respondents for a longer time (with hand-written notes) or doing the interview elsewhere. The latter option would not have been convenient for women with little spare time and whose mode of

transport was either walking or cycling (many UK service-providers had cars (Appendix C), see also Hondagneu-Sotelo, 2001). Also, spending time in that environment aided my understanding of some key issues in these women’s lives. Thus, turning fans off was the least exploitative option in the circumstances.

Service-user contacts sometimes acted as gatekeepers, deciding beforehand where I should meet their service-provider. Other diasporic researchers have mentioned how informants form their own ideas of the researcher’s positionality and expect their point of view to be respected (Soni- Sinha, 2008; Sultana, 2007; Thapar-Björkert and Henry, 2004). On four occasions I interviewed a service-provider with the service-user present in the house. While this situation could adversely influence the validity of the

responses, I did not find the arrangement wholly disadvantageous. Two respondents interviewed in this situation were among the most self-assured women I met. Their body language and manner of conversation indicated that they were able to hold their own in the vicinity of their service-users. Both were late and non-apologetic about it. Their interaction with the service-users was also useful to observe. For example Neena explained that she had stopped working for the two sisters living next door because one of them had increased her workload

89 but without raising her wage. The service-user intervened and said ‘Well yes, but now you earn less, you could have talked to her nicely [and maybe she would have increased your pay]’. But Neena stuck to her guns and refused to accept that her actions had disadvantaged her. I am confident that I established some trust, as I heard a range of experiences regardless of the method of contact or place of interview.

In contrast, although the UK service-providers were also socio-

economically underprivileged compared with me, only one woman’s service-user communicated with me on her behalf. The final interview arrangements with the rest were made by the providers and myself, and I communicated with them in a similar way (emails, calls, texts), in essentially the same language (English) as with the academics. Also, I met some in the same cafés in which I met the UK academics (e.g. Costa Coffee). When I interviewed in homes, I sat in similarly designated rooms (living or dining room). All these interviews lasted an hour on average. Interviews with the Indian service-providers, however, were conducted in Hindi and averaged forty minutes, in part because I did not use written

questionnaires and in part because some women were not as forthcoming as others. Some had a self-effacing attitude about themselves and their work, a point noted by other researchers in different Indian contexts (Thapar-Björkert, 1999). My obvious ‘outsider’ status as a service-user may also have been a factor, despite my reassurances of confidentiality (see also Thapar-Björkert and Henry, 2004). People may be reserved at first and open up on meeting again (Mattila, 2011), but the women I talked to had little time for leisure/rest between their paid work and own housework. It made me uncomfortable to ask them for more time and on the two occasions I did do so, I could see it was not easy for them. However, some UK service-providers also gave clipped answers. In contrast, both the UK and Indian service-users, women who inhabited social spaces

comparatively similar to mine, and were invested in feminism/gender issues, all gave fairly detailed answers. It is thus possible that what I am calling ‘self- effacing’ might simply have been a difference in the levels of commitment of the service-providers to my research compared with mine and the service-users, which instead shifted the mantle of vulnerability during those interviews from them onto me (Cotterill, 1992). Fortunately, I talked to more women than I had initially planned and some women talked at length, so I was able to gather