The 'Ayahs': Story Of Forgotten Indian Nannies Of The British Raj

"Ayah". A word that you must have heard while growing up. Whether or not your family had a caregiver to look after you, you still know what the word means. They are the nannies, the caregivers, or whatever you deem fit to call them. But what you may not know is that Ayahs existed and even played a prominent role during the British Raj.

Sometimes she would rock the British babies to sleep under swaying punkahs in Calcutta, or soothed fevers in the Delhi heat, and stood steadfast on stormy decks as shops cut through the Indian Ocean. Despite the care and loyalty, the history has been cruel to her, and barely remembers her name. Ayah- a nanny, a servant, a mother to many, travelled halfway across the world and back again, quietly stitching herself into the fabric of colonial life.

From the 1860s onwards, the ayah became an indispensable figure in the lives of British families living in India. These Indian women cared for children in British households, managed nursery duties, and often performed additional domestic work. Older and experienced, they were trusted with the most personal aspects of family life—washing, feeding, dressing, and sometimes sleeping beside the children they raised.

But their labour, though deeply intimate, was largely invisible. Rarely mentioned in letters or memoirs, they appeared only fleetingly in paintings or photographs—silent figures on the margins of history.

Many ayahs accompanied families to Britain on sea voyages, either permanently or temporarily. These travelling ayahs provided care en-route and sometimes stayed on for a short duration. While some were loved and treated with respect, others were discarded once their purpose had been served—left behind in a foreign land, jobless and without support.

The need for safe lodging led to the creation of Ayahs’ Homes in London. One such home at 26 King Edward Road, Hackney, gave shelter to stranded ayahs and acted as a hub for temporary work. The home operated from 1900 to 1921, offering food, beds, and a place to wait for a return ticket or new employment.

In peak summer travel seasons, the building could house up to 90 women a year. But census records from February 1911 show only five residents—two from Madras, one each from Bombay and Colombo, and one ‘amah’ from Hong Kong. These scattered traces are all that remain of their time.

It was not until in 2022, when their long-overdue recognition came as a blue plaque was approved for the former Ayah's Home in Hackney. Farhanah Mamoojee, a London-based art specialist with Indian roots, led a two-year campaign to honour the women whose stories were long buried.

“This is about acknowledging those marginalised South Asian women who were part of the Empire but never part of its history books,” she shared, hoping the recognition would resonate with the South Asian community and beyond.

Piecing together the lives of ayahs is a challenge. Researchers like Avantika Binani and historians such as Arunima Datta have combed immigration files, newspapers, and oral histories to trace their presence. Some stories, like that of Alice Nona who travelled from Ceylon to Australia in 1949, reveal the breadth of their journeys and the resilience they showed navigating unfamiliar worlds.

Ayahs were not merely passive subjects—they negotiated wages, navigated social boundaries, and in some cases, escaped the restrictions of their native societies. They were mobile, adaptable, and deeply embedded in the machinery of Empire.

Despite their contributions, ayahs have largely vanished from public memory. Their work was feminised, racialised, and considered unremarkable—traits that ensured their omission from mainstream historical narratives. But projects like Ayahs and Amahs: Transcolonial Servants in Australia and Britain and books like Waiting on Empire are helping to write them back in.