Day 3

There are two different types of people in India: the really rich and the really poor.

Last night, while waiting in traffic, three frail children walked through the isles of cars and came to our window. The oldest was around eight and they each held a bouquet of flowers in their hands. As they pressed their small dusty faces to the window of the back seat, my heart sank. Three pairs of big brown eyes stared while they mouthed for us to purchase from them. One of the children held a naked baby who was barely five pounds.

The driver just rolled up the window.

There we sat in a comfortable air conditioned car while those kids roamed barefoot on the dangerous streets of Delhi. It's a regular site in India, one I knew I would see before coming. But seeing it in person brings up emotions I wasn't prepared to feel at once. First I felt extreme sympathy, then embarrassment, and lastly I felt ashamed. I was embarrassed for my privileged life, and ashamed for not doing anything.

You know that saying, "every little bit helps?" …. well in India the meaning and truth of that statement somehow gets lost in translation. There is just no way to do enough.

Here there is no system for helping people. In certain places, the homeless seem to be the majority. There are neighborhoods of just tents all crammed in the worst parts of the city, under bridges, in the median of the road, behind walls of unsecured bricks. It's heart wrenching to look at. It is sad and scary and everywhere, but it is Delhi.

We took the air conditioned car to the home of our new friend Rishi, an Indian boy our age who attends school in Boston. Walking into his house, was like stepping out of India . We took his personal home elevator to the second story, where we met his very accommodating parents and ogled at their pristine home. Honestly, it was the nicest house I had ever seen. We then went to his rooftop. Beautiful flowering plants, benches, and statues surrounded us as we made ourselves comfortable under a fan. Rishi's wait staff brought us a tray of coconut water as we sat under the purple sky of Delhi.

How is it possible to be in the same city and a whole different world at the same time?

Because in Delhi, the upper and lower class are woven together and the network of threads are expanding so rapidly that it is impossible to separate or balance the two extremes. Children of wealthy families take over their parents business, children of poor families take over their parents struggles. The middle class shrinks and Delhi is divided in a dichotomy of strugglers and moguls.

And it is interesting that in a country where a tent and a mansion coexist on the same block that the two classes do not intermix. Wait staff are treated as less than people and it seems that is the way they want it. Allie said "thank you" to the house keeper today and the young man only looked uncomfortable and walked away.

Here people stick to their comfort zone. The rich with the rich. The poor with the poor.

Today our rickshaw driver, when we told him we were from the United States told us America is the place where there are no worries, no troubles. Anything is possible.

Now I am not one to preach that the United States is perfect, but I think he's right in a sense that in the United States where we're born doesn't necessary determine our lot in life. There is almost always a way to raise your social standing should you work hard and long enough.

Here though you are born of a certain class, raised as a certain class, and conditioned to be the type that same class for the rest of your life. It is why people don't help people here, why "charity" isn't common. It is classism in every single sense of the word and it is why every little bit does not and cannot help.