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.
Going Home to India 