When two worlds collide, Part 16

It was a Tuesday night when Stanley met Kumar at ‘Mykonos,’ a Greek restaurant in midtown Manhattan. It was practically empty with the exception of the wait staff who were pleased to see Stanley, which made Kumar believe he was well known there, and he was. They were shown to a table in the back of the restaurant close to the kitchen and far enough away for any other patrons not to hear their conversation. After they had sat down, had been served a glass of wine and engaged in small talk for a couple of minutes, Stanley began.

“In the short time I’ve known you, you have mentioned on more than one occasion, that you come from a very poor background. I think you used the term, ‘untouchable.’” Kumar nodded and smiled as the waiter refilled his glass with the most excellent red wine and then proceeded to take their orders. Kumar deferred to Stanley.

Once the waiter had left, Stanley leaned back in his chair, wiped his mouth and continued, “Why don’t you tell me what an untouchable is? However, before you do, let me tell you of my experience in Hyderabad. I saw levels of poverty I have never seen before and at the same time, seemingly coexisting side by side, levels of opulence that can only be rivalled by some of the wealth in this country. And they appeared to coexist without any acrimony. That, I think was what struck me the most. The acceptance by those in both class structures of that existence. Let me tell you, I found it to be appalling.”

Stanley stopped and pointed to Kumar as if to say, now it’s your turn.

“Yes, you are correct. What you saw is heart breaking. But what you didn’t see is the non-public side of that imbedded class structure. Let me explain,” and here Kumar stopped and thought for a second. He began again, “the best place for me to begin, is by relating a true story that happened both to my father and myself, personally. One day when I was oh about 9 or 10, my mother asked me to go with my father to the house where he worked. Before my father found the hotel where he works to this day, he worked in the home of a wealthy merchant, we call them Banyas, where he cleaned the floors every day. He never had a day off. And that’s all he did.

“He would get there early in the morning, sweep the floors and then with a rag and a bucket of water wash them and then leave. On this particular day I was off from school and my mother asked me to accompany my father to his job. I wasn’t sure why. My father objected vehemently. He did not want me to go with him. I assumed it was because he didn’t want me to see the sort of job he did. I knew the work, or at least I had a good idea of the work he did, and I was proud of my father. There are a lot of people in my village who don’t have jobs. They sit around and watch the world go by. So, I was proud of my father. My mother had never asked me to accompany my father before and I thought it was strange, but she made him take me. My mother cannot read nor can she write, but she has a head on her shoulders and she is a very intelligent woman. It’s a pity she wasn’t allowed to attend school, because she would’ve done very well. So, I went with my dad and as we climbed the steep hill to the house where he worked, he was very silent. That was not like my father. He was always smiling and laughing and telling stories. I think they were mostly fantasy, but I think it was his way of dealing with what life had dealt him. When we got to the house, he opened the rusty iron gate and asked me to stand outside, but I followed him in. It was then that I realised why my mother had asked me to accompany him. It was pay day. When we got to the stone veranda, he stood there and waited. I wasn’t sure why. A few seconds later the woman and I won’t call her a lady, but the woman who was my father’s employer came out and without saying a word, threw money on the floor. She then turned to walk away. I immediately grew angry. Then when my father knelt down on the ground to pick up the money, I stopped him by putting my arm out. He wasn’t sure what to do. The woman saw this and turned. She stood there with her hands on her hips. I then knelt down and picked up the money and gave it to my father. There was stunned silence. No one had ever treated that woman who was from the upper classes in that manner. She shouted at the two of us. ‘Get out,’ and pointed to the rusty iron gate. ‘You don’t work here anymore,’ and then after a second or two added, ‘and take your bastard son with you!’

You see what my father did is what is expected of the untouchables in India. We call them Dalits. And what I did was totally unacceptable. My father expected to be treated in that manner, I did not. I will not accept that sort of treatment.

“Anyway, when we got home, my mother was sitting on the roadside washing dishes under the communal tap. She looked up at the two of us and smiled. She knew her experiment had been a success. Later that evening before I went to bed, she called me aside and said, ‘son don’t accept that as your future. Study hard.’” Kumar surprised himself with his little monologue. Stanley on the other hand sat there horrified by what he had learnt that evening. That horror was plastered all over his face. He had no idea people could treat their fellow human beings in such a manner.

“Aren’t there,” he finally said after a few seconds, “Aren’t there people in India who are doing stuff to outlaw that behaviour?”

“The laws are on the books Stanley, but no one enforces them.”

“But how about the Bollywood actors? I have to tell you, I went on the internet this afternoon while I was waiting to meet you and I saw videos of famous actors and actresses railing against this sort of treatment.”

Kumar smiled, “but only while the cameras are rolling Stanley. Only while the cameras are rolling. Once they are in their homes, I would be shocked if they treated their servants any differently.”

“I have to tell you when I got to Hyderabad, I was appalled by the poverty I saw. I took it upon myself to tip everyone well who helped me.”

Kumar laughed, “I’m sure you were a hit. But in all seriousness, thank you.”

Dinner was over and Stanley’s mind was swimming with ideas. “Now about the subject I had mentioned on the telephone, the one about going back home. Have you given it much thought?”

“Yes, I have,” replied Kumar sounding sad, “and I have to decline.”

“Why?” asked Stanley rather loudly, firmly believing that Kumar would jump at the idea. “Why? I thought it would be just what you want.”

“At first blush, I would love to go back, but there are two impediments. The first is I need to finish my degree and sit the bar exam in New York, secondly and more importantly, I need time to gear up for the battle ahead.”

Stanley tipped his head slightly to his left, “what do you mean by battle?”

“Simply put Stanley, the word would soon get out that I am from the lowest classes in India, and no one will, forget about treating me with respect, but no one will come to the practice. You would lose all your clients.”

The food had arrived and for the next half an hour or so both men indulged themselves, leaving the prior conversation on the table.

Then at one point when dinner was over Stanley wiped the corners of his mouth with his napkin and announced. “I don’t buy that. In fact, I refuse to accept it, even if it means Marjorie and I moving to India for a while!”