a little faith

 It’s been some time since I’ve written. I feel like a lot has happened: a lot of tears, a lot of confusion. I still don’t know the truth about India, or whether I can love her again after being confronted, of late, with so much poverty.

 But today, I have a little faith.

 I took a rickshaw back from the shopping mall. The driver asked if we could stop at an emporium first; they get paid for introducing Western customers. I was tired, but I agreed, knowing that his income would be small.

 When we arrived, he told me that I could leave my shopping in the vehicle. Uncomfortable with this, but not wanting to carry my bags, I hesitated. “Madam, I will go nowhere! I will wait for you”, he smiled. I decided to trust him.

 After ten minutes of playing fancy dress with beautiful cashmere shawls, I stepped outside, peeking around the door nervously. … He was there. And so were my bags, in the precise position I had left them.

 On the way back, he tried to teach me “how are you” in Tamil – it was a mighty tongue twister, and we were in heaps of giggles at my shaky attempts. The passenger in the neighbouring auto was grinning at us too.

 My sweet driver told me about his home, and he told me about his children. He didn’t push for more shops. When we reached my flat, I paid him double. He gracefully accepted with a wonderful smile and a “thank you, Mam”.

 Yes: today, I have a little faith.

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serving the rich

 India is a land of contrast and contradiction. It hit me harder than usual today.

 My colleagues are bright and dynamic. They will do everything in their power to create the elusive ‘wow’ factor; they will work thirteen hour shifts, or thirteen days in a row. They use style and grace to bring about a sense of awe: the sirs and mams, the certainlys, the my pleasures flowing freely.

 Their energy is awesome, inspiring, even. But it is with a heavy heart that I write this, and tell you that I worry it is misguided.

 I left work today by the staff entrance. I swiped my card (almost signing IN, a seemingly automatic action). There is a long driveway at the side of the Taj, lined with employee’s motorcycles, and security personnel at the entrance. I smile at the guards, and step beyond the gates outside. Outside, into India.

 I almost trip on construction workers. They are doing roadside work at the entrance. They have steely stares, and hardy hands. Their skin is bare and shrivelled from the burn of Chennai’s glaring sun. They are axing holes with precision, and I cannot tell if they do this with dedication, or in defeat.

 I drive in a rickshaw to the supermarket. The journey is slow with traffic, and I see a lot, today. I see material shops rich in sarees and polished window entrances, with half built straw huts for their neighbours. I see gleaming xerox and phone and printing shops, and just beyond them, rows upon rows of slums.

 I see a man sleeping, I pray not dead, on the pavement.

 It is too much for me today. I realise, sadly, that we work like dogs to serve the rich with poverty on our doorstep. The TATA group to which Taj belongs donates 70% of its profits to charity, and our salaries are the lowest in the Indian hospitality industry. But still, I am uncertain.

 Today I do not know. Today I do not understand.

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