The office is empty these days. I look around to find only a few heads peaking over the cubicles. Why, you might ask? It is the season. Right now in Delhi, it is the season for EVERYTHING.
My lunchtime conversations are filled with people offering me suggestions on what to do on the weekends. "You know, you should go for a picnic; it is the season", or "This is the season for all the outdoor concerts", or "Did you celebrate (insert religious holiday from any religion here)? it's the holiday season."
The phrase, "it is the season" seems to be an explanation for much more than the work absences though, to the point where it has become a funny way to dismiss unwanted obligations.
"We can go out to a club on a Wednesday... It is the season!"
It's the perfect weather that has brought on this extra bit of seasoning. For the past month, the weather has been the same everyday: clear skies, a high in the mid-twenties, with a light breeze. Unfortunately for me, this has become my season to buckle down. I have A LOT to do on my project, and only two and a half weeks left to do it. However, it has been clear that my work for PHFI will not come to an end when I leave, as there are many more research opportunities available from the base data that I have collected. But for now, I am trying to get as much done as possible... and also trying to enjoy "the season".
Monday, November 21, 2011
Tuesday, November 8, 2011
A Guilty Lottery Winner
Where I live, expensive cars whiz past on the highways of a developed nation.
Where I live, all of the fast food places from North America deliver.
Where I live, having a maid is not a luxury; it is commonplace.
Where I live, people have PhD’s, successful businesses and old money.
Where I live, the mall has Forever 21, Cinnabon, Lacoste, Gucci, Armani, Louis Vitton and Hugo Boss.
Where I live, a 3 bedroom flat is worth 2 million dollars.
But where they live, they squat on government land.
Where they live, they don’t have sanitation measures; they defecate on the street.
Where they live, they are lucky to eat once a day.
Where they live, those passing by don’t look at them; they stare at their feet to avoid seeing the helplessness.
Where they live is all around where I live.
I “see” them everyday, as I sit in the car staring at my feet, at the clock, at my phone, at anything besides them as they walk up to my car window holding a newborn infant and asking for money for food. Until the light changes, I stare elsewhere because if I don’t look, I don’t have to feel as bad. I can think to myself in the way I’m supposed to think: continuing to give to beggers fuels the billion dollar mafia-esque begging industry. It promotes the idea that a life can be made off of dependency. The money probably wouldn’t even go towards food for the child, but rather to the mob boss, or to smoking or drinking. So, I think to myself, it’s really better for me NOT to give. I think this, the light changes and I drive away.
Then sometimes, I look and that notion of doing what I am “supposed” to do becomes a lot harder. I see a five-year-old child, malnourished and dirty, asking for 20 cents so they can eat chapatti. “They probably don’t even get the money. They probably give it to their begging boss to make a quota.” The thought enters my head, on schedule and rehearsed. As I continue to look, I start to think, “Yes, but what happens to them if they don’t meet that quota?” or “Does it really matter? What the hell were you going to do with the 20 cents?” Sometimes this train of thought wins, sometimes the light changes before I give in. Either way, I am left feeling helpless and ashamed.
It’s the children that always get to me. They’re the ones that I tear-up over – it’s their innocence; it’s the thoughts of their future. But, in reality, it’s the old beggers that have it the worst. They are the ones truly with nothing. Their families have left them at some point. Likely, they lived paycheck to paycheck through their working years, and because there are no old-age pensions here, they are left in their old age handcuffed without a key. Their bodies are brittle and worn: the men are unable to do manual labour, and the women can’t even prostitute themselves. Begging is their only means of survival.
I “see” this everyday. But, on the days I really see it, I feel it too. I was born on the right side of the world with the right family. Why?
Where I live, all of the fast food places from North America deliver.
Where I live, having a maid is not a luxury; it is commonplace.
Where I live, people have PhD’s, successful businesses and old money.
Where I live, the mall has Forever 21, Cinnabon, Lacoste, Gucci, Armani, Louis Vitton and Hugo Boss.
Where I live, a 3 bedroom flat is worth 2 million dollars.
But where they live, they squat on government land.
Where they live, they don’t have sanitation measures; they defecate on the street.
Where they live, they are lucky to eat once a day.
Where they live, those passing by don’t look at them; they stare at their feet to avoid seeing the helplessness.
Where they live is all around where I live.
I “see” them everyday, as I sit in the car staring at my feet, at the clock, at my phone, at anything besides them as they walk up to my car window holding a newborn infant and asking for money for food. Until the light changes, I stare elsewhere because if I don’t look, I don’t have to feel as bad. I can think to myself in the way I’m supposed to think: continuing to give to beggers fuels the billion dollar mafia-esque begging industry. It promotes the idea that a life can be made off of dependency. The money probably wouldn’t even go towards food for the child, but rather to the mob boss, or to smoking or drinking. So, I think to myself, it’s really better for me NOT to give. I think this, the light changes and I drive away.
Then sometimes, I look and that notion of doing what I am “supposed” to do becomes a lot harder. I see a five-year-old child, malnourished and dirty, asking for 20 cents so they can eat chapatti. “They probably don’t even get the money. They probably give it to their begging boss to make a quota.” The thought enters my head, on schedule and rehearsed. As I continue to look, I start to think, “Yes, but what happens to them if they don’t meet that quota?” or “Does it really matter? What the hell were you going to do with the 20 cents?” Sometimes this train of thought wins, sometimes the light changes before I give in. Either way, I am left feeling helpless and ashamed.
It’s the children that always get to me. They’re the ones that I tear-up over – it’s their innocence; it’s the thoughts of their future. But, in reality, it’s the old beggers that have it the worst. They are the ones truly with nothing. Their families have left them at some point. Likely, they lived paycheck to paycheck through their working years, and because there are no old-age pensions here, they are left in their old age handcuffed without a key. Their bodies are brittle and worn: the men are unable to do manual labour, and the women can’t even prostitute themselves. Begging is their only means of survival.
I “see” this everyday. But, on the days I really see it, I feel it too. I was born on the right side of the world with the right family. Why?
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