A lift that was depressing
It was warm when I stepped out for my morning walk at 5:30. Not a soul was astir. Well, except for the street dogs, which were already out and about on their morning constitutional.
Crossing the main road is never a challenge at that hour. Other than the occasional vehicle, the road was clear for pedestrians. But, I know enough that I need to be on guard even when there is no traffic because it is India. It is always possible for a vehicle to come out of a driveway or a side street at startling speeds. En garde!
In the quieter neighborhood of broad streets with lush trees where I walk every day, I saw a few others, walking or exercising. We are a few regimented people, I suppose, who begin our days like this every morning, day after day.
In the old days, many upper caste/class men in villages did the same except that they walked to the temples and then after worshiping the gods, walked around in the temple yards. Everybody else, including upper caste women, too began their mornings early but to start working. The big difference now is that upper caste/class women too are out walking and exercising in the morning. A lot more people across the castes and classes are now able to sleep in a bit because conditions have improved in a prosperous India.
I saw many faces that I always see in the morning hours. A man about five or ten years older than me in his black t-shirt and black jogging pants, which is a rare sight in India where complete black is not considered to be a good outfit. A few years ago, my father, who got tired of me wearing black, asked me once, “don’t you have any bright colored or white shirts?”
A woman about my age with Capri-length loose jogging pants and a t-shirt. This women and the man in black are the regulars who walk alone. My people!
Occasionally I see couples. And then there are groups of men and groups of women. Very rarely do I see groups of men and women.
When I overhear conversations, almost always the men folk seem to be talking politics and sports. I hear women in groups talk about problems at home—either their’s or their friends’ or their daughters’ … Don’t men have problems at home that they would like to process with their fellow men? Aren’t women interested to yak about sports and politics while they are out walking with their gal pals?
I was sweating like a pig when I returned. Well, I have never seen a pig in the real world that sweated like a pig. I don’t know if my perspiration is porcine enough. Strange phrases we use. Sick like a dog. Ludwig Wittgenstein reportedly asked his friend how he knew how a dog felt when it was sick. Duran Duran sang “hungry like the wolf” inspired by Little Red Riding Hood, and I merrily sang along. Is a wolf not hungry for anything other than Little Red Riding Hood?
So, there I was sweating like a pig when I returned after the walk. But, maybe some of us perspire more than others do. An old high school friend whom I met with yesterday told me that he walks six kilometers every day. I was thrown off for a second by the metric system. Fortunately, my high school math is alive and well in my brains. “I used to walk four-plus miles every day by the river, but now I walk a tad less than that” I told him. But, I guess he doesn’t sweat as much as I do. We were seated across the cafe table and he was comfy in the temperature conditions despite wearing a dress shirt and a pair of trousers, while I in my shorts and t-shirt could feel my perspiration. Yep, I sweat like a pig!
As I entered the elevator, er, lift, to take me up the apartment floors, a milk delivery woman approached. She looked about my age. But then she could be younger too; affluence provides us with means to stay fit and healthy.
I put my hand out to prevent the elevator door from closing.
“Can I come in"?” she asked in Tamil. She was holding four milk sachets in her hands.
I replied that she certainly could.
“Which number?” I asked her in Tamil, and then pressed 4 for her.
“The milk delivery truck was late, which is why I am late,” she said as she stepped off at her floor.
I suspect that she asked whether she could ride the elevator with me—there was nobody else—because she needed to make sure that I would not be offended. This is India, after all. In India, people are always aware of their respective stations. She didn’t want to offend me, who is assigned a higher station. Had our roles been reversed, had she been in the elevator first, it would never have crossed my mind to ask if I could enter. I simply would have entered.
In the US, a delivery person would have merely said something like “hold, please” and then rushed into the elevator. We would have said hi and continued on. Maybe we would have even remarked about the weather or the ball game.
A small encounter, yes, but is a big measure of how far a prosperous India has yet to go in order to get away from the centuries old stratification of society by class and caste. Maybe India will truly change when pigs fly without breaking a sweat!