The CEO of Pratham Delhi, Madame Indira, is taking me to visit her daughter. Her chauffeur navigates through Delhi’s traffic with confidence. Madame Indira’s daughter lives about 45 minutes away in Gurgeon, an upper class resort just outside of Delhi. The area is home to many international businesses and shopping malls. Guards greet us at the gate. This gated community has its own supermarket and fish pond, beauty salon and generators. Residents here never have to worry about power outages. Fields of dollar green grass stretch out. Children fill the playgrounds in front of a cityscape. Delhi is far away.
Madame Indira’s granddaughter is dressed in pink. At age five, her English is already excellent. She attends a private school in the neighborhood. Madame Indira’s daughter, a teacher, tells me that she wouldn’t want to move anywhere else. “We can afford a domestic worker. We have 17 malls to choose from. If I want milk I just go down the stairs. I can get a haircut without having to leave the gates. I have everything here.”
They want to show me the supermarket. It is stacked with everything, even off-season fruits like apples (that I have been looking for in my neighborhood). They take me to Mega Mall. They show me the movie theatres, the food court, and all the stores for Him and Her and the Little One. They let me try some Indian food for the first time. We laugh together and I feel surrounded by warm hospitality.
A couple of days later, Madame Indira takes me to her home. She lives in a gated community. Beautiful flowers and trees fill the gardens. I meet her other two daughters. They are in their mid thirties and they share a room. They are not married—yet. They have pursued PhDs; now one of them is engaged. When I tell them I am unmarried and have an apartment of my own, they shake their heads. “That is not the Indian way.”
They feed me South Indian food and desserts until I’m about to burst. They insist I sleep over, and I humbly accept. In the morning they make me crispy toasts with tomatoes and cucumber. The chai tastes better than coffee. “Next time you visit India,” her daughters say, “you must stay with us.” I wave goodbye. As we leave the gates and drive past a ten-minute-row of open huts sitting on top of garbage where people live without any privacy next to the main road, Madame Indira’s words rest inside the car. “Many poor people in India believe that they were born to live impoverished from opportunities. I can’t accept that. Education is the container of dreams, especially in the slum.”
Madame Indira’s granddaughter is dressed in pink. At age five, her English is already excellent. She attends a private school in the neighborhood. Madame Indira’s daughter, a teacher, tells me that she wouldn’t want to move anywhere else. “We can afford a domestic worker. We have 17 malls to choose from. If I want milk I just go down the stairs. I can get a haircut without having to leave the gates. I have everything here.”
They want to show me the supermarket. It is stacked with everything, even off-season fruits like apples (that I have been looking for in my neighborhood). They take me to Mega Mall. They show me the movie theatres, the food court, and all the stores for Him and Her and the Little One. They let me try some Indian food for the first time. We laugh together and I feel surrounded by warm hospitality.
A couple of days later, Madame Indira takes me to her home. She lives in a gated community. Beautiful flowers and trees fill the gardens. I meet her other two daughters. They are in their mid thirties and they share a room. They are not married—yet. They have pursued PhDs; now one of them is engaged. When I tell them I am unmarried and have an apartment of my own, they shake their heads. “That is not the Indian way.”
They feed me South Indian food and desserts until I’m about to burst. They insist I sleep over, and I humbly accept. In the morning they make me crispy toasts with tomatoes and cucumber. The chai tastes better than coffee. “Next time you visit India,” her daughters say, “you must stay with us.” I wave goodbye. As we leave the gates and drive past a ten-minute-row of open huts sitting on top of garbage where people live without any privacy next to the main road, Madame Indira’s words rest inside the car. “Many poor people in India believe that they were born to live impoverished from opportunities. I can’t accept that. Education is the container of dreams, especially in the slum.”
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Wow Emma, you're such an inspiration!
ReplyDeleteM.A.
I try again: you inspire me!!!
ReplyDeleteM.A.