|The bus starts out empty.|
A brown sahib in a bus
“Pranay, like it or not, you will be a gringo in India.” Dr. Guerrant warned me as I got ready to fly to India. Personally, I had felt slightly outraged. I am, after all, a passport carrying citizen of India! Born in humid Kolkata and raised in the dry heat of New Delhi, I did not consider myself a “brown sahib,” a term reserved for the educated Indians who served the British raj in India. Oftentimes, they were more English than the English.
|And ends up looking like this.|
Five minutes into my jangly bus ride, I saw a lady, in a gorgeous saffron sari who was squatting behind a small bush. She was defecating. Seeing the bus approach, she made a few perfunctory moves to conceal herself, but she knew as well as I that it was futile. I averted my gaze to give her some privacy. Though I had seen similar sights hundreds of times before, it shook me up in a way that the bus couldn’t. I couldn’t help but think of how different my India was from hers.
India’s economy will soon overtake China’s. This is the proud boast of a vocal minority in India, a minority I belong to. Indians like me suddenly have the capacity to patronize brands such as Bvlgari and BMW. You know you’ve been left out of the prosperity party when you cower behind bushes, clutching at the last vestiges of your dignity, while carrying out your basic bodily functions. Sadly, this is true of around 638 million people in India…think about that number… 638 MILLION!
Two schoolgirls were sitting right in front of me. They were attired in white shirts and navy blue skirts. Their well-oiled braids were secured with ribbons that matched their skirts. Occasional whiffs of coconut oil from their heads served as a welcome deoderant for the bus. As I focused in on their conversation through the din of the bus, a wave of nostalgia gripped me. They were memorizing the preamble to the Indian constitution, a feat every good middle-schooler in India is expected to master:
|What do I have in common with these men?|
We, the people of India, having solemnly resolved… to secure to all its citizens:
Justice, social, economic and political;
Liberty, of thought, expression, belief, faith and worship;
Equality of status and of opportunity;
and to promote among them all
Fraternity assuring the dignity of the individual and the unity and integrity of the Nation
I couldn’t help but wonder: if Justice, Liberty, Equality, and Fraternity are the lifeblood of modern democracies, is India, with its extreme inequalities, truly a democracy? If we, wealthy and educated Indians spout clichés, act fashionably desensitized to the poverty in our faces, and allow the creation of a permanent economic underclass, won’t our democratic claims ring unforgivably hollow? Won’t history judge us harshly for this denigration of our fellow humans?
“Doctor sahib, can you help me?”
My reverie was suddenly broken by my young co-passenger who had had spotted my stethoscope. I clarified that I was a lowly med student, but agreed to look at a leg wound that he wanted to show me. The wound looked dirty and was crusted with some dried exudate. A fly promptly buzzed in and began probing the injured area. I swatted the fly away with my hand and suggested some simple wound care and tetanus prophylaxis to the men.
|We need the optimism and perseverance of this man. He knows the street will be dirty within hours and yet he sweeps undaunted.|
|If you want to meet an optimist in India, shake hands with a traffic policeman. They deal with chaos beyond imagination.|
Often Indians communicate more by jiggling their heads than they do through their words. There is the ready sideways head-jiggle of the Indian who is on the same page as you and then there is the slow, tenuous cranial swaying of the Indian who is mystified, but too proud to admit it. I realized that the boy was having a tough time understanding my accent. My English is inspired by Oscar Wilde. His was inspired by necessity. I broke into Tamlish (a hybrid of Tamil and English) and gestures to counsel him.
As I stumblingly counseled the boy, I felt a sickening twinge: I truly was a wretched brown sahib, a gringo. Dr. Guerrant was right. I spoke, essentially, a different language. The rupee had a completely different meaning for me-- the 3 rupees I had paid thoughtlessly to the conductor are almost 10% of the daily earnings of hundreds of millions of Indians who subsist on 99 cents a day. The lack of malnutrition and access to athletic facilities has markedly distinguished me from the emaciated poor who comprise the bulk of India’s population. In that moment, I resented and despised everything from my expensive education to my posh-sounding accent. They were exposed as the products of inequalities deeply ingrained in Indian society, the same inequalities I vehemently decry. I felt like I had somehow swindled the man next to me.