When I first came to Madurai almost 3 years ago, I had the approach of an idealist. I thought people do bad things, but they do what they think is right for them. I thought the real India would be pretty much how I imagined it: just like urban India, only different. I thought people would be free of the petty meanness that comes from urban living. I sometimes wonder; everywhere you look in India, there is desperation behind every face. Fathers running themselves into the ground to feed their kids. You want the best for your kids, you want them to be safe, to be healthy, to have a secure future. But even the basics take so much. No matter how hard you try, it's not enough. It's like Alice through the Looking Glass, who runs as hard as she can, but she stays right where she was.
I once visited the home of a classmate in another part of Tamil Nadu. She lives so far out of the city, it takes a 15 minute ride in a private coach after the last bus stop, over very bad roads. Even that late at night, the coach was packed, so I guess a lot of people live there. Her home turned out to be tiny and spartan. Minimalist, even. When I heard they get fresh water in a 10 day cycle (10 days water, then 10 days no water, and so on. We were visiting during the dry cycle), it certainly put things into perspective. I bitch and moan that my home on South Delhi gets only 300-400 litres a day. It turned my trip into a guilt trip. Her family was so nice, it was heartbreaking to think people live like this.
For what it's worth, her father is a manager in a nationalised bank.
Funny, isn't it, our sense of perspective? If you live in India, no matter where you are, you will encounter quiet desperation. Maybe the kid holding the tissue boxes outside your car, or the man holding open the lift. We learn early on that they are not part of our world, and we learn not to see them. They float through our world, phantoms crossing our path, but never intersecting.
One time Aditya and I were coming back from visiting some friends of mine, and after waiting 15 minutes for a bus, we decided to take an auto. As it turned out, the driver was pretty chatty. He chatted about his brand new digital meter, commended us on our scant Kannada, and impressed us both with his hindi. But I was really taken in by this man. He was an engineer, but with no job, he drove this rickshaw at night. In the day, he went job hunting. With a huge grin, he produced his laminated certificates from under his seat, and told us he had gone for an interview that morning. This guy had it pretty rough, but he was so cheerful. We wished the best of luck, and went on our way. A few days later, I was talking to a guy in my hostel who was from my school in Delhi. All I remember from that conversation was something about driving his dad's Mercedes at a 120 Kms/hr on the highway outside Delhi... without a license. Talk about perspective, huh?
When I first came to Madurai, I was taken aback by the things I saw. Things you know happen, just not right in front of you. At the main bus stand, there were people sleeping on the platforms, some of whom I noticed hadn't changed positions in days. Many had barely a rag to cover themselves. Old women who called me Thambi, hoping for some spare change. Men who walked as if there was nothing to come home to.
And what was I doing? Well, to the old ladies I said, "Kaas illa"; and watched a DVD of a french film made by a polish guy, while eating a Chicken Sandwich, a Mars bar, and washed down by Diet Coke (ironic, I know). When a single tear runs down Juliet Binoche's cheek, I am all choked up. Such grief! Such loss! As Kaushik would say, so pathetic! I was overwhelmed. But the poor sods I saw earlier that day at the bus stand? Eh.
I once visited the home of a classmate in another part of Tamil Nadu. She lives so far out of the city, it takes a 15 minute ride in a private coach after the last bus stop, over very bad roads. Even that late at night, the coach was packed, so I guess a lot of people live there. Her home turned out to be tiny and spartan. Minimalist, even. When I heard they get fresh water in a 10 day cycle (10 days water, then 10 days no water, and so on. We were visiting during the dry cycle), it certainly put things into perspective. I bitch and moan that my home on South Delhi gets only 300-400 litres a day. It turned my trip into a guilt trip. Her family was so nice, it was heartbreaking to think people live like this.
For what it's worth, her father is a manager in a nationalised bank.
Funny, isn't it, our sense of perspective? If you live in India, no matter where you are, you will encounter quiet desperation. Maybe the kid holding the tissue boxes outside your car, or the man holding open the lift. We learn early on that they are not part of our world, and we learn not to see them. They float through our world, phantoms crossing our path, but never intersecting.
One time Aditya and I were coming back from visiting some friends of mine, and after waiting 15 minutes for a bus, we decided to take an auto. As it turned out, the driver was pretty chatty. He chatted about his brand new digital meter, commended us on our scant Kannada, and impressed us both with his hindi. But I was really taken in by this man. He was an engineer, but with no job, he drove this rickshaw at night. In the day, he went job hunting. With a huge grin, he produced his laminated certificates from under his seat, and told us he had gone for an interview that morning. This guy had it pretty rough, but he was so cheerful. We wished the best of luck, and went on our way. A few days later, I was talking to a guy in my hostel who was from my school in Delhi. All I remember from that conversation was something about driving his dad's Mercedes at a 120 Kms/hr on the highway outside Delhi... without a license. Talk about perspective, huh?
When I first came to Madurai, I was taken aback by the things I saw. Things you know happen, just not right in front of you. At the main bus stand, there were people sleeping on the platforms, some of whom I noticed hadn't changed positions in days. Many had barely a rag to cover themselves. Old women who called me Thambi, hoping for some spare change. Men who walked as if there was nothing to come home to.
And what was I doing? Well, to the old ladies I said, "Kaas illa"; and watched a DVD of a french film made by a polish guy, while eating a Chicken Sandwich, a Mars bar, and washed down by Diet Coke (ironic, I know). When a single tear runs down Juliet Binoche's cheek, I am all choked up. Such grief! Such loss! As Kaushik would say, so pathetic! I was overwhelmed. But the poor sods I saw earlier that day at the bus stand? Eh.
3 comments:
Nice post.
I read somewhere that other people's poverty like bad smell only takes getting used to . After that you don't see it, you instinctively ignore the beggar on the road, the children who hound you asking you to buy wilting roses for a few rupees.
It isn't a wonder that foriegners..read westerners who come are so apalled by the contrasts betweeen the poor and the rich. We on the other hand are used ot it.
We Indians have a way of rationalising the status quo. Theek hai, chalta hai, swalpa adjust madi... that's how we think. A person's misfortune is karma, and best left alone. We top that off by telling ourselves, what difference does it make anyway? You can't help everybody, so why try?
You know, it actually makes sense in a perverse kinda way.
'You know, it actually makes sense in a perverse kinda way. '
ya but helping one inch makes a person's life one inch better even if its nothing . its so easy to be cynical which i often am.
Post a Comment