Go out into the community and earn Rs.25 each. No begging. Limited resources. Two blindfolded group-members.
The rules were set. The challenge was made. The execution...was interesting.
As we were dropped off at a road with a few shops lined around, we looked at each other, wondering how we would extract money from people who barely had any to begin with. It wasn't a slum, but neither was it Bandra or Gurgaon. But as I slowly came to realize, what they lacked in money, they made in dignity, compassion, and utmost generosity.
After wandering around for a long time with nothing to sell, we soon realized labour was all we had to offer. I managed to get myself a half-hour stint at a cigar shop (more like a cigar box), thanks to another Fellow who had already convinced the owner before. Sitting in that tiny cubicle, barely understanding what the customers were asking, and looking dazedly at the countless items in the shop (bloody brands), I asked myself many times what I was doing in that stall. The odd looks from all the men coming to buy cigarettes (and something that looked like paan ki supari - but was not) didn't help. So at the end of my half-hour, I was more than happy to take my 30 rupees and get myself out. But I can't forget the old man who stood patiently behind me the entire time (while the owner lounged in front on a chair) and guided me through every sale.
Next, I hooked up with another TFI fellow, Abhishek, who until then had been earning his way by teaching people how to solve the rubik's cube (note to self: LEARN). He managed to get us a job at a xerox store, where we were given the task of binding books. Halfway into the task, the man working with us told us to stop as our hands would hurt later. Coming from someone who binds a hundred books per day and still had a big pile in front of him waiting to be bound, those were the most touching words ever.
Of course, we completed the entire pile before stopping, and began politely reverse-haggling with the owner over our payment ("aap batao kitna dein hum" / "nahi aap jo dena chahte utna dijiye"). We were hoping to get 20 each at the most. And then, he took out a 100 rupee note and gave it to us. The shock on my face could barely match the sense of guilt running through me: that was way more than we deserved. It didn't feel right taking it from him, but at the same time, his empathy and generosity meant so much more.
We had set out to earn Rs 25 each, but I felt like I had earned a sense of humility and dignity in everything we did. Around me, other fellows were sweeping floors, waiting tables and washing cars. No job was too small, no task too menial. And walking back, I couldn't help but wonder what this country would be like if every person could walk that same talk: could learn the difference between pity and empathy.
The rules were set. The challenge was made. The execution...was interesting.
As we were dropped off at a road with a few shops lined around, we looked at each other, wondering how we would extract money from people who barely had any to begin with. It wasn't a slum, but neither was it Bandra or Gurgaon. But as I slowly came to realize, what they lacked in money, they made in dignity, compassion, and utmost generosity.
After wandering around for a long time with nothing to sell, we soon realized labour was all we had to offer. I managed to get myself a half-hour stint at a cigar shop (more like a cigar box), thanks to another Fellow who had already convinced the owner before. Sitting in that tiny cubicle, barely understanding what the customers were asking, and looking dazedly at the countless items in the shop (bloody brands), I asked myself many times what I was doing in that stall. The odd looks from all the men coming to buy cigarettes (and something that looked like paan ki supari - but was not) didn't help. So at the end of my half-hour, I was more than happy to take my 30 rupees and get myself out. But I can't forget the old man who stood patiently behind me the entire time (while the owner lounged in front on a chair) and guided me through every sale.
Next, I hooked up with another TFI fellow, Abhishek, who until then had been earning his way by teaching people how to solve the rubik's cube (note to self: LEARN). He managed to get us a job at a xerox store, where we were given the task of binding books. Halfway into the task, the man working with us told us to stop as our hands would hurt later. Coming from someone who binds a hundred books per day and still had a big pile in front of him waiting to be bound, those were the most touching words ever.
Of course, we completed the entire pile before stopping, and began politely reverse-haggling with the owner over our payment ("aap batao kitna dein hum" / "nahi aap jo dena chahte utna dijiye"). We were hoping to get 20 each at the most. And then, he took out a 100 rupee note and gave it to us. The shock on my face could barely match the sense of guilt running through me: that was way more than we deserved. It didn't feel right taking it from him, but at the same time, his empathy and generosity meant so much more.
We had set out to earn Rs 25 each, but I felt like I had earned a sense of humility and dignity in everything we did. Around me, other fellows were sweeping floors, waiting tables and washing cars. No job was too small, no task too menial. And walking back, I couldn't help but wonder what this country would be like if every person could walk that same talk: could learn the difference between pity and empathy.
Awesome! I could imagine you doing all those things ... from York's 5 floor library to a cigarette selling dhaba? Quite unethical I would say for you to be selling cigarettes and paan to the people lol but the book binding was a good job. Word of advice, next time, no selling things to people that would harm them. Or is it, "next time, there will be no next time?" kind of a thing?
ReplyDeleteKeep posting, I love it.
love ur updates ruch.. this is exactly how i wanted to hear things :)
ReplyDeleteas changu said.. i cld picture u doing the thngs u mentioned.. wat an experience!