The Battle with Privilege: A Story

She sits on the terrace with the sun on her face, pen in her hand. The culture surrounds her here and she absorbs it like the trees take in the Indian sun. Not even ten o’clock and the morning is a heavy thirty degrees. Her journal lies in her lap as she flips through the fears, battles and frustrations that accompanied her through this journey. Her finger stops on an entry describing her doubt as the plane had descended; What if I hate this? What the hell am I doing? She laughed to herself at the memory. Aunty joins her on the terrace, a steaming cup of chai in her hands, the screen door slamming behind her.

“Tea, Isha” she says, handing her the tiny mug. Aunty is already dressed in a vibrant, plum-colored sari, her grey-streaked hair pinned neatly back. As she moves around the deck attending to her tasks in a silent but companionable manner, the sari can be heard swishing with every step. Wrapped rather loosely, exposing only the small of her back, the near transparent fabric that extends to the shoulder tumbles down her arm each time she bends. She checks the laundry on the line before feeding last night’s leftover chapatti to Johnny, who pants excitedly as she saturates it with milk in his dish.

Once foreign, the morning’s noise has become a source of comfort for her. Someone is sweeping the walk below; the broom rustles rhythmically against the pavement while the neighbor’s children squeal and horns honk incessantly nearby. The medicine man next door is already harboring his usual queue of patients, their drivers fighting over the shade offered by the trees across the street. The boisterous rattle of an engine is coming near the house and she knows it’s her driver before the shabby blue rickshaw comes into view. She gets up, eager to leave. They will be waiting; another day, another lesson.

“Bye Aunty,” she says, but Aunty is slouched in her chair; head bowed and hands resting atop the newspaper in her lap.

A cloud of smoke emerges from the exhaust as the driver yanks the engine to life on the second try. The car loudly sputters and shakes as she hops into the back seat. This daily journey is always the same, but each experience is new. As the rickety 3-wheeler clamors past the buzzing markets, dark stares penetrate into the carriage. She meets the intense, curious glares and they make her blush. They pass people packed on top of truckloads, families of 4 on motorcycles, people sleeping in the grass; people everywhere.

The auto weaves in an out of lanes that no one seems to notice while honks and hands serving as signal lights. They take a turn and approach a slum on the left. She passes this slum every day with the urge to take a picture, but has to stop herself; how disrespectful. The houses are made of tin and flamboyant blue tarp, encircled by mud, garbage, and scrawny cows. There is a smell that lingers here; is a putrid smell of feces, unwashed skin, and soiled innocence. Yet the children flounder in the midst of it all. They run blissfully in circles clanging their sticks together. Some are without shoes, some without pants, all without the knowledge of the state they live in. Their mothers scrub the soot from their clothing in a murky stream nearby.

Finally, the red brick building comes into view, standing tall in the blue sky. She straightens, preparing herself. They turn in and drive past the nomads; families that build homes but are without homes themselves. The men clumsily lob hammers over their shoulders while women transport loads of freshly mixed cement on their heads. Children that were playing in the street disperse as the car approaches, but the tiniest little girl sits in the middle of the road. She remains there as the auto passes, blinking against the cloud of dust rising up in her face. No one seems to notice.

Left at the entrance, she is greeted formally by the doormen. Her name is already written in the visitor book as one of the men hand her a pen to sign. She can feel their admiring stares as she scribbles a signature. She hesitates, then strides past the heavy doors into the sunlit building. She is greeted by the smell of dahl cooking in the kitchen. It makes her excited for lunch, when she will pour that goopy liquid over rice while dark eyes smile at her behind aluminum plates. She can see them all now, in the dining hall casually working on their studies. Three tiny boys are scurrying by, late to join the rest, but they stop to hold out their hands for her to shake.

“Good Morning Ma’am,” they say with timid smiles, teeth a shocking white against their delightfully darkened skin. These smiles remind her of her purpose.

It is here that she is transformed; it is here she realizes the world is beautiful.

To lay, To lie

Guilt consumes
me, smothers me
like a quilt
of patchwork daisies
thrust off
the bed we made

Gnawing inside
regret prods
a reverie;
heavy and heaving

I can’t breathe

The smell
betrays, tangled
in my clothes
skin
virtue

dissolves
you walk out
the door
face, eclipsed
with sadness

I can’t

Sky, by a Question

Confusion painted the clouds today
with carelessness
leaving brush marks across the sky
Bitter air holds warmth today
they say -
as they pass under.
Obscurity cascades from the canvas, encircling
like an aura
murky and grey
Who are these nomads?
walking by -
Don’t they see the paint streaked sky?
So wrapped up in “who am I”
“Look up” I say. My lips remain
For Light steals Confusion’s reign
Approaching with embracing arms
reaching
heavy breath, preaching
To you, I wanted to say
Hope painted the clouds today
With luminosity
leaving clarity across the sky

Dirty Job

Don’t think I don’t see you
dirt glazed cheeks and
tethered minimalist cloth
Oh, I see you
Squatting there
nimble fingers plucking
for hard-earned meager pay

I see myself in the decaying
sores on your feet,
your emaciated limbs and
deeply sunken eyes
I do not feel guilty for what I do -
how I afflict you.
Your endurance
overtakes me;
you are resilient it seems
but in the end I will win.
I always do.

I live in the water molecules
creating your disease
I dwell in the hunger-infused
howls of your children
I strip away your dignity;
penetrate your mind so
you believe it’s your fault

In the darkness, I swiftly crawl
thieving your possessions;
no one suspects me.
How could you, in your simple minded state?
I pocketed your curiosity and
opportunities for higher thought

I know what you think of me
You think I conspire to beat you down
to bring upon you a wretched existence
while I stand by and gloat
You’re wrong; I’m just doing my job.
Someone has to do it.

ode to mom~

I assume that every mother instills some form of lifelong aspirations upon her daughter, whether intentional or not. I can try to imagine that moment (and I say try because that moment feels as far away as my own birth) where upon looking at your new born child with a new found adoration, you feel that you could – and direly want to- mold their future right in front of you. You create a future brighter than your past, a future free of the things you had face, to endure. I feel my mother’s ordained future heavy upon me but not in a way that makes me feel like I am living a dream that belongs to her. It is more so that I am aware of the things she had long hoped for me and I merely embraced them. I recall at an early age, of her telling others I was going to university and I could picture myself there, in whatever mental scheme of “university” I was able to produce at the time. I still hear her almost pleading with me, during the many disputes of the wonderfully tumultuous time that is adolescence, to be confident - something she never was – and chastising me whenever I was a follower. She would then reminisce about when she had me; how she wanted me to grow to be an independent, strong, poised woman with her own ideas. This all sounds very palpable … but it is in knowing the insecurities of her past that I am able to see the sincerity of her hopes. I think of these things often and they have become no less a part of me than the blood in my veins. Minding her hopes has become a means of keeping myself accountable, and that in itself has evolved into the desire to continuously make her proud.

beauty in the breakdown

I am getting sad to leave. I was just thinking about how this kind of traveling not only brings experience and satisfies you in a way that you can’t even describe, but it instills in you a longing to further know the world and to really understand it. I long to see more of the world; to meet its people and learn of their ways. There is just something about being immersed in a culture so completely that you begin to see its beauty in ways you otherwise would not had you not the chance to look at it with a new set of eyes. It is so easy to just look at the way people dress in Canada and dismiss them as a certain type of people or stereotype them as a culture, whereas here, where you are the outcast, you begin seeing them as people and their individuality and beauty are striking in ways you might just have overlooked before.
This trip was well worth it; the experiences, lessons and people that I met were priceless and I will never forget this. I learned that I can go across the world by myself and adapt to the lifestyle and situations around me quite easily. I learned what it means to “live simply”. I learned more about the word “privilege”. I was reminded to focus on my main goals, to continue to do good, and to not lean on my own understanding. I was forced to step out of my comfort zone time and time again and try new things. I discovered new strengths and weaknesses in myself, and found some things to work on in the future. I learned to love greater and that I can easily love and be loved by others. I learned that I was designed to show mercy and to help, and where that will take me I don’t really know but I am excited to see what my next adventure is and whatever else is in store for my future. And finally, probably one of the hardest lessons to learn was that the things that break your heart and the things that bring you joy can very well be the same and that you really do need a little of one to truly appreciate the other. I have been so blessed to go where I have gone and experience what I have at my age. I have been blessed with my freedom, my affluence and by having many who love me and I learned that it is important to find balance in it all. I really hope these lessons stick with me as I got back to my life and that I don’t just get swept up into the wrath of materialism. There is just so much more out there in the world to engross yourself in that can enrich you, teach you, stretch you and challenge you; so many more things to see and learn and embrace.
I have gained a heart for the world and have hardly even seen a fraction, but I am so thankful for the experiences I have attained so far and know that this longing will only continue to grow on me and this is exciting, as I await the many other experiences my life will have to offer.

privilege

[What is Privilege?]

Is it knowledge, a pillow, or a dream?
A roof? A coin? A smile?
Could it be freedom, a car or a friend?
What about talent, a meal, or a pair of shoes?
Is it health? Is it insight? Is it ambition?
Could it be courage, or pity or fear?
Is it a heart that returns our love?
Is it trials that breed our strength?
Is it getting or is it giving?
Is it measurable at all?
Definable by any means?
Is it the same for any two people?
And who then sets the standard for the underprivileged and the rich?
In a country where families sit in parks or on street sides while the father pulls people around on his bike for 10 or 20 rupees a ride, where people shower under the dripping of pipes, where shoeless children roam and beg on the streets instead of going to school… it is not hard to reach this point of question. Had I really considered myself a little hard done by before coming here? Just because my parents don’t have much to give and I have to work hard for the things that I want? That seems like the most lavish of lifestyles after coming here. But who am I to consider myself privileged? If anything this trip has made me hate the word ‘underprivileged’, because in some ways these people are much more privileged than I. I come from my rich country with my name brand clothes and I consider myself more privileged than these people? These people are the epitome of what it means to “live simply”… really what do I have that they don’t? And especially the children… we feel we have to teach them self-confidence and sharing… but is it not our own anxieties and complexes passed down that hinders them so? A child develops their own view of beauty only to have it ripped away when society tells them what is beautiful. They develop trust only to lose it when we tell them what to fear. Maybe we need a lesson from the children. Even as I see the boys so eagerly share their food with each other, my instinct reaction would be to hold it away, to keep it for myself. These children have no desire to acquire resources, to possess. They are happy to simply have a meal and share… to live in the moment. I think back to the materialistic culture of my society… with such a race for possession of items and resources, and attachments to things that are “mine”. Does this not create a larger burden? To try and keep up with the race than to “live simply”… again I ask, who is more privileged?