Shoes

Bidhu:  A simple shoe shine today took charge of my soul.  I was in Colaba, a neighborhood shopping district not far from the famous Nariman Point.  I had no intention of getting my shoes polished, primarily because polish just doesn’t work on brushed leather.  I must admit, though, that in a country like this, any shoes get dirty.  Approached, I was, by a young man who wanted to make my shoes shine.  He seemed to recognize almost immediately that what I really needed was a shoe brush only, so he offered to clean ‘em up for only 2 rupees (that’s a nickel).  At first I said no, but after a city-block of polite harassment, I relented.  A bus stop was nearby.  It provided a place for me to sit, and it was there that Bidhu went to work.  Off came one shoe and his brush took over.  He cleaned it thoroughly; then he did the other.  I didn’t notice at first, but Bidhu was working out of a bag, not a specially-crafted shoe box.  That meant, he explained, that he could not compete in the high-profit zones like CST (the main train station).  In fact, without the box, the police would chase him away.  He had no money to buy a box.  He had been at this job for six months and he still could not afford a box.  When I discovered that his English was extremely good and that he could carry on a conversation without pause, I was inspired to talk to him more.  Where did he learn his English?  At a church.  Was he a Christian?  No, a Hindu.  He was lucky to have such good English lessons.  I told him that with English skills like his he could be doing more than shining shoes.  With his bright disposition, his seeming sincerity, and his intelligence (it came across very early in the conversation), he should be able to get a good job in Mumbai.  He couldn’t, said be, because he had no residence.  He had come to Mumbai from Jaipur, his home city, and had brought his mother and sister with him.  They were living on the sidewalk in a neighborhood by the airport, and he was taking the train (no metro here) to center city each day (for him, probably a free ride since the train largely operates on the honor system).  If he was making a few rupees per shoe shine, he could work all day for the equivalent of a few dollars, maybe enough to feed himself and his family and replenish his polish supply.  He wanted a box desperately and asked me if I would buy him one.  No, said I, but I did give him 100 rupees, rather than the 2 he initially asked for.  Remember, that’s a little more than 2 dollars: nothing, by American standards.  He seemed pleased with my “generosity” and insisted on walking with me for a while, making sure I knew how to get to the Marine Lines train station.  He asked again if I would buy him a shoeshine box, and I said no (as more flimsy thoughts of him being a scam artist went through my head).   How could I be sure he was legitimate?  Bidhu and I parted with a handshake at The Oval.  How guilty I felt.  I thought about the experience for the rest of the day and into the night.  I could have bought him a shoe box for a fraction of what I had paid a few days earlier to go to Agra.  Why didn’t I?  I should have.  I would have, were I to do it again.  I was not a good person today.  Bidhu was 25 years old.

Bidhu had all of the human qualities that could have enabled him to make a substantial contribution to India.  His potential was being wasted.  He could be doing more with his life, and India could be benefiting.  I thought of an advertisement I had seen in The Times of India:  “In pursuit of your parents’ dreams, don’t sacrifice your own.”  As I recall, the ad was sponsored by the newspaper and the mental health counselors of India.  I wondered if Bidhu had sacrificed his own dreams for the sake of his family, the two he had brought with him to Mumbai.  I didn’t ask about his father, but Bidhu might have been the responsible male if dad were gone.   He had made the decision that he could do better for himself in Mumbai.   But, with two more mouths to feed, how could he ever get ahead?  There are hard-working people on the streets on India, but most get virtually nothing for their work.  I just wish someone could harness their energy to the goal of economic development.  Millions of Bidhus could transform the country.

The Dobi-Wallahs:  Not far from Colaba, there is a little fishing village right in the city of Mumbai.  Next to the fishing village is a village of dobi-wallahs.  These are the people who do the laundry for nearby Mumbai:  businesses, hotels, restaurants.  You don’t see it from the street, but the interior of the block is pock-marked by vats of water into which the clothes are thrown.  Looks a lot like the tannery quarters in Middle Eastern cities, but without the smell.  People use their hands, arms, and feet to do the job of the agitator on your home washing machine.  Above the surrounding houses, clothes flap on lines as they dry.  And, there are places where ironing is done as well.  I saw a truck pull up with large sacks of laundry to be washed.  It was unloaded, and porters pulled it into the quarter, where it was apportioned out.  There seemed to be plenty of business and plenty of labor to do the washing.  These are jobs passed down from one generation to another.  Typical of India, however, most of the workers were males.

Geographically yours,

D.J.Z.