By DWAYNE HUNN
‘Seek to
imitate... our Master, who when he sees a poor man does not wait for him to beg
for alms.”
—Khin Boron
Stay with me for
some of my next few words as they walk down a street for you. After walking
down this street I will attempt to become, in some way, analytical about our
world’s relation to it. Both worlds are very important, although and because,
their way of thought and motivation are different.
Try to imagine that you and I are on the corner of that street. Trust me to guide you down it and view it to you as I feel you would. Trust me, because I lived on that street for ten months and viewed it many times as you probably would in this paper.
The corner is a
busy intersection jerkily flowing with small cars, an occasional rich man’s
Chevrolet, two-tired and dilapidated red buses, bicycles, and carts of all
sizes — all laboriously pulled by thinly strewed, dark skinned legs. The
restaurant on the corner, with the walls opened to the street, makes edible
curry. Edible, once you have gone through the initial stages of dysentery due
to the initial eatings of it. The overhead fans do little to keep flies off
your food.
The etiquette of
the waiters, who carry six glasses of water at once by inserting their fingers
into the innards of the glasses, leaves a little to be desired. Carrying the
water glasses as such is not too bad, but when the waiter cleans leftovers from
the dishes, blows his nose in his fingers and then brings the glasses — then,
more than etiquette enters in.
Passing the
restaurant we edge around the queue (line of people) which winds down the
sidewalk. They have queued up to receive their vegetable oil allotment. The
third little shack dispenses it. The short squat man lying in the shack on a
raised portion of wood is the proprietor. He lies there with his white clothes
and contented smile almost daily. He does not seem to do much else. Others do
it for him. We have passed the last of the little shops. They were selling
articles from soap and materials, to flashlights and lamps. All domestically
made articles – this is the poorer area of the city.
Perhaps along with
our visual conceptions a little socio-economic background would aid our
journey. The housing area we are now entering is one of the areas commonly
termed the chawls. The chawls are India’s slum-tenements. Here, a few hundred thousand
of Bombay’s one to three million chawl dwellers reside.
Continuing down
the street our senses take in the new and unexpected. But the sense mechanism
is so flooded – shocked may be a better word – that initially it is impossible
to express. But we do notice the obvious. The air of the street is filled with
dirt, vehicle exhaust and the stench of dirty humans, garbage and excrement.
But that is merely the air.
Breathing this, we
proceed down the street. We proceed slowly, being jostled and stepping between
all the little people on the sidewalk makes our movement such. We become
Impatient with the overflow crowd of the sidewall and move to the street. There
with part of the overflow crowd, we compete with vehicles for movement.
On the curb of the sidewalk we have just left
art little, weary Indian women commonly called “vegetable wallahs.” They sit on
a little hemp sack with their income for the day or week beside them. That
income may consist of 40-50 small potatoes stacked, ready for sale, in piles of
four.
Moving in the street through the foul air and
crowd our ears soon become attuned to the honks and screeches of passing
vehicles, the call of vegetable wallahs, the clatter-chatter at the crowd, the
walls of children and the blare of Hindi music.
Looking through the crowd we can see into the
room of a dirty grey, four-storied chawl. Through the barred window we can see
that pots, rags, pictures of holy men and very often a picture of President
Kennedy adorn the meager wail space. The room we have looked into has that one
barred window, one door and no fan. It is 15’x12’ and it is home for usually
5-12 joint family members.
Outside the barred window lies a 20’
separation before the next chawl begins. That space is littered with dirt,
rocks glass, red Indian spittle, excrement and garbage. Around numerous large
piles of garbage, dining cows and/or pigeons will be found at any time of the
day. At night rats in large numbers will be found. Rats in Bombay are estimated
at between 5-12 per person.
Returning to the curb our view focuses on a
10 month old child of one of the vegetable wallahs, The mother keeps the child
wih her since the rest of her family is out trying to earn a few paises (like a
penny). The child adjusts to the environment, she must. The naked child crawls
oft the hemp mat and as it does so you notice the large sores around the pelvic
area. Medicare? No, not even Johnson’s Baby Powder is available.
One observant walk down such a street is
unforgettable. Many walks — and especially living there — brings home the
vicious circle of the meager life, education, and experience these people are
forced through. The crowded and dirty living conditions put health, privacy
and enjoyment at a bare minimum. Their food staples, rice and dahl, are
severely rationed and spreading it to a joint family keeps that family frail
and weak.
During the school year the children get out
of this environment six times a week — to be educated. They go to half-day
classes that average between 35-50. Teachers are not well paid or well trained,
and the environment background speaks for itself. With this classroom setting,
rote memory, with next to no creative formation is the method.
At birth those children were as cute as, and
their eyes sparkled, as much as any American counterpart. But soon enough their
eyes assumed a hollow, weak look. A middle class American baby gets, and soon
enough learns to expect, much different treatment.
Incidentally, what we just walked through is
how the upper lower class lives, the class which borders on the middle class.
The one-and-a-half to three million who live in clusters of disgusting hutments
and under the skies an the streets are lower.
That was a bit of the grass roots description of a RPCV. The Peace Corps is meant to try to effect development on this grass roots level. Sometimes it can, sometimes it must work otherwise. Such was the case with our group. But out of this all of us learned something about the problems which blocked success at this level. At the same time one of our most important educations was one of appreciation for the “so much” we have at home.
As an Urban
Community Development group some of us came to India believing we should act as
proteges of Saul Alinsky. That we should organize the lower classes, have them
petition and/or fight for their rightful, human deserts to the government
bureaucracy above them.
Yes, the beautifully pyramidal, governmental welfare structure exists — on paper. But to expect redress of life’s grievances from that structure is foolish, and the lower classes have never bothered to feel otherwise.
Being an American
in the city also offers opportunities to get to know the upper and middle
classes. The middle class has its own environmental hang-ups. They are aware of
how the rich live, desire same of their possessions and experiences. Their
teenage children are not like the chawl or hutment children — many of which
have never been to the downtown, financial, entertainment center of the city.
The middle class
teenager has seen it, experienced some of it and adds to the family pressure to
enjoy more of it. But that costs money. Money comes from position. Appointment
does not depend axiomatically on position, but class position plays a very
important role in attaining these appointments. For those below the upper class
it is usually a hindering role. The economic structure of developing nations
adds to the hindrance.
The middle class
father would like to have money for a business venture, would like to have
connections to aid this and would like to use both to put his children through
the good private schools and then through a foreign university. With these
status symbols his children’s aspirations will be more attainable than they
presently are to him.
Father has learned a little through life and has been stuck beneath the bureaucracy long enough to realize the impediments thwarting improvement of his position. He can talk continuously of these problems. He has not yet tired of talking, but has tired of believing — if he ever believed such — that he or anyone can meaningfully change the structure. He is frustrated, but seems to have accepted his position —beat by the structure.
India’s political
structure offers few immediate, effective changes. Such a structure based on a
75-80 percent illiterate and peasant populace, supported by ensuing traditional
beliefs and continued by a moderate (for Asia — except when imputed on its
base) two point four percent population increase; offers few clear spots in
the smog.
This is but a
sketch of the problems of the world’s largest democracy. How does the rest of
the free world, and particularly America, aid India with these problems? Proponents
of aid would generally agree that it should be directed to developing human and
economic resources. Opponents would point out that for 20 years we have aided
nations like this yet they have not “taken off.” Their answer is — “therefore
taper off.”