In a place so hot, wet and crowded, it is so very easy to become angry - to lose one's patience, to make an excuse for an inexcusable comment, or to forget one's humanity. However, when I pass these hot, wet, crowded roads, I rarely see anger. I see ambition, I see hope, I see survival - but anger, not so much. Maybe I haven't seen enough, but maybe I have chosen to not see what others want to. Perhaps I have chosen to pay attention to children playing in a puddle in their school uniforms instead of the irascible bus conductor. Maybe I find more fascinating the patient, aged man who sells bananas on the third cross road everyday rain or shine - not the woman who yells at me to move forward to make space for her in a train carriage already filled to the brim. Just maybe, I find my self unable to believe the tremendous amount of good that happens here on an everyday basis - not bad, as this place is known for.
The other day I was traveling to the station on a full bus - meaning the vehicle was so filled with people, that the bus conductor could not go from one side of the bus to the other without leaving the bus. The rain was pouring and everyone was rushing to close the stubbornly rigid windows making the atmosphere even more humid and stuffy. My "personal bubble" was being majorly invaded and my feet were bruised and muddy from being stepped on by the unfortunate standers being jostled as the bus moved through the conglomeration of ditches that are Mumbai's roads. I was lucky to have gotten a seat - very lucky. And then I saw an elderly man, desperately searching for a seat, so I offered him mine and joined the standing crowd.
A while ago, I was traveling to the station with my cousin. We were sitting and chatting when all of a sudden he got up and decided to give his seat to an elderly woman. His action moved me deeply - and since then, I have always made myself give my seat to someone who needs it more.
But that day, as soon as I forfeited my seat, a young man who saw I was carrying heavy bags gave his seat to me. On the other side of the bus I saw a seated, old man offering to hold a stander's infant for him so it might make it easier for him to stand and another young man behind me offering to collect an elder one's ticket for him as the bus was too crowded for the old man to walk through. And as the bus halted at the next bus stop, a new wave of passengers came in and I, along with several others, once again gave up my seat for someone who needed it more.
In that crowded bus full of strangers, I had already developed several relationships - relationships of kindness. Relationships which formed because people gave to others without asking anything back - because people still cared no matter how hot, humid, stuffy and irritating the atmosphere was.
Yes, the buses are noisy, suffocating, and a whole bunch of other negative adjectives. But it's not the cheap ticket that keeps me coming back - it's the opportunity to do for others, to make a relationship with an unknown person, to be cared for by a stranger. It is to observe the true meaning of community that I ride the bus.
When we are around so many people, we have three choices. We can do tremendous good, tremendous bad, or nothing at all. We all have equal potential to do either one of those three - but it is the side that we act out on that makes us who we are. Yes, this country has corruption - it has black markets, and piracy, and lying, and cheating, and prostitution and a whole bunch of other problems. But what country does not? With a population of 1.5 billion, there are bound to be several who chose to do tremendous bad. But riding in a Mumbai bus makes me realize that everyday, there are several people who do good - who would rather stand in a crowded bus than see an elder man do so, who wouldn't mind holding a child so a young father can stand more comfortably, who would console a fellow passenger whose child has just gone missing. I finally understand why here, in this country, the vegetable seller and the old man I gave my seat to refer to me as daughter, or why the kids call me elder sister. My relationship with these people doesn't have to be one of blood - it only has to be one of genuine kindness.
Saturday, July 24, 2010
Thursday, July 8, 2010
Discovering true wealth...
Working here has brought me to the conclusion that there is no such thing as poverty. It's who we are that makes us rich, not what we have. And in the end, we are the only ones who decide how wealthy we can be - not luck, not circumstances, not our bosses. I am glad that my superficial wealth didn't prevent me from coming here this summer - from feeling as if I were above these people, from thinking that I might not be able to adjust, or from being unable to connect with this once-alien world. But I wonder, if I had been wealthier, would I have refrained from coming? Would I have deprived myself of all the riches I have found here because of the material riches I had there? It is a question I know the answer to, but don't want to think about. Sometimes I feel as though equality is not material- because our equality lies not in what we have, but what we deserve. We all deserve respect - to be treated as humans, to be recognized for our true - not superficial - wealth, and to be accepted in what seems like an unforgiving world.
When I look at the kids, I don't feel pity. And I never will ever feel pity for them. Their riches make me look like a beggar - I am poor in their comparison. They love endlessly, forgive easily, smile lovingly. They are the ones who remind me daily that a little compassion, understanding, and forgiveness goes a long way. And they will be the reason that I shall leave here a somewhat wealthier woman.
The other day we took the Parivartan kids on a field trip. All 33 of us piled into 4 taxis and headed to the Nehru Planetarium and History Museum. On the way, the kids would point to certain landmarks and say, "didi, look at that!" or "didi, I've been here before!" Saiyma showed me where her dad catches the bus to go to work everyday and I showed her where I catch the bus to come to school everyday. As we all sat there sharing our lives and experiences with each other, I felt as if my world was getting bigger. The things that the kids notice and observe are so brilliant and so amazing, yet somehow so mundane. They see magic in what I view as commonplace. It inspires me to have more faith in how beautiful this world still is.
Upon arriving, the kids tumbled out of the taxi and immediately began pointing with excitement at the large dome ahead. As we entered the Planetarium, the excitement only increased. Their expressions of wonder as they gazed at the solar system model above their heads and discovered what their weight would be on the moon were priceless. Seeing their faces made me marvel once again at how far away space really is from our world - it allowed me to appreciate how vast, mysterious, and compelling our universe is. I had lost touch with that kind of enchantment. I thought it was kind of funny that though it was them I had taken to the museum, it was I that had learned the first lesson.
When the star show began I found myself sitting with Saiyma, Roshni, and Jainaam. As the screen lit up with the constellations, the theater erupted with "oohs" and "aahs" from all the kids. I let out a laugh only to be shushed by Saiyma who was intently listening to the explanation of how to find the Polestar using the Big Dipper. Throughout the show she held my hand and watched with the utmost attention. Every now and then, she would lean in and ask me a question and let out an emphatic "wow!" upon hearing the answer. When the show finally ended, I was bombarded with questions by all the kids. "Didi didi, what did that mean?" or "didi, explain why this happened." I tried to explain as my dad explained to me when I was younger - with patience guiding my words, and excitement lighting my eyes. As I was finishing answering a question by the curious Jainaam, I felt a tug on my sleeve. I turned around to see Saiyma, her face contorted in worry. "Didi," she said, "we must be annoying you with all our questions, right?" And although I had already heard several mind-boggling questions throughout the day, hers was by far the most difficult one to answer - not because there was no answer, but because there was no way I could explain it in a way she would understand. But I tried anyways - "No," I said, "hearing you ask questions gives me so much happiness. Never ever stop asking questions. I will always try my best to answer." I don't think I will ever be able to express to Saiyma how much I value her curiosity. My answers will always be meager compared to her priceless questions.
At the end of the day, all 33 of us piled into 4 taxis once again and headed back home. And again, we shared our experiences and lives with each other. Sakina pointed to a small unit in a row of wooden huts along the road, telling us that she used to live there before she moved to her house in Azaad Mahaula. And Nasreen pointed to a diner her father had once taken her to. And I...I listened. I listened to everything they had to say in their anxious voices. I listened to their questions and their concerns. I listened as they negotiated how they would take turns sitting by the window of the taxi. I guess I hoped that if I listened enough, I would find a way to become a part of their elite world - a world in which they reside as rich kings and queens. A world to which only a few people belong. A wonderful world which, alas, can only be seen by those who have discovered what true wealth is. It has definitely taken me a while to do so, but I am nonetheless very happy to say that I have finally discovered true wealth. And I must say, it's a lot more beautiful than anything money will ever be able to buy.
When I look at the kids, I don't feel pity. And I never will ever feel pity for them. Their riches make me look like a beggar - I am poor in their comparison. They love endlessly, forgive easily, smile lovingly. They are the ones who remind me daily that a little compassion, understanding, and forgiveness goes a long way. And they will be the reason that I shall leave here a somewhat wealthier woman.
The other day we took the Parivartan kids on a field trip. All 33 of us piled into 4 taxis and headed to the Nehru Planetarium and History Museum. On the way, the kids would point to certain landmarks and say, "didi, look at that!" or "didi, I've been here before!" Saiyma showed me where her dad catches the bus to go to work everyday and I showed her where I catch the bus to come to school everyday. As we all sat there sharing our lives and experiences with each other, I felt as if my world was getting bigger. The things that the kids notice and observe are so brilliant and so amazing, yet somehow so mundane. They see magic in what I view as commonplace. It inspires me to have more faith in how beautiful this world still is.
Upon arriving, the kids tumbled out of the taxi and immediately began pointing with excitement at the large dome ahead. As we entered the Planetarium, the excitement only increased. Their expressions of wonder as they gazed at the solar system model above their heads and discovered what their weight would be on the moon were priceless. Seeing their faces made me marvel once again at how far away space really is from our world - it allowed me to appreciate how vast, mysterious, and compelling our universe is. I had lost touch with that kind of enchantment. I thought it was kind of funny that though it was them I had taken to the museum, it was I that had learned the first lesson.
When the star show began I found myself sitting with Saiyma, Roshni, and Jainaam. As the screen lit up with the constellations, the theater erupted with "oohs" and "aahs" from all the kids. I let out a laugh only to be shushed by Saiyma who was intently listening to the explanation of how to find the Polestar using the Big Dipper. Throughout the show she held my hand and watched with the utmost attention. Every now and then, she would lean in and ask me a question and let out an emphatic "wow!" upon hearing the answer. When the show finally ended, I was bombarded with questions by all the kids. "Didi didi, what did that mean?" or "didi, explain why this happened." I tried to explain as my dad explained to me when I was younger - with patience guiding my words, and excitement lighting my eyes. As I was finishing answering a question by the curious Jainaam, I felt a tug on my sleeve. I turned around to see Saiyma, her face contorted in worry. "Didi," she said, "we must be annoying you with all our questions, right?" And although I had already heard several mind-boggling questions throughout the day, hers was by far the most difficult one to answer - not because there was no answer, but because there was no way I could explain it in a way she would understand. But I tried anyways - "No," I said, "hearing you ask questions gives me so much happiness. Never ever stop asking questions. I will always try my best to answer." I don't think I will ever be able to express to Saiyma how much I value her curiosity. My answers will always be meager compared to her priceless questions.
At the end of the day, all 33 of us piled into 4 taxis once again and headed back home. And again, we shared our experiences and lives with each other. Sakina pointed to a small unit in a row of wooden huts along the road, telling us that she used to live there before she moved to her house in Azaad Mahaula. And Nasreen pointed to a diner her father had once taken her to. And I...I listened. I listened to everything they had to say in their anxious voices. I listened to their questions and their concerns. I listened as they negotiated how they would take turns sitting by the window of the taxi. I guess I hoped that if I listened enough, I would find a way to become a part of their elite world - a world in which they reside as rich kings and queens. A world to which only a few people belong. A wonderful world which, alas, can only be seen by those who have discovered what true wealth is. It has definitely taken me a while to do so, but I am nonetheless very happy to say that I have finally discovered true wealth. And I must say, it's a lot more beautiful than anything money will ever be able to buy.
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