The Individualist

While staying in my Uncle's house for the past two days, I have come into contact with several people, on base and off who are employed in some form of servitude or another for those more well off. I was informed while driving with my uncle this morning that some of the slums located nearest to the wealthier high rises housed the servants of those more well-to-do. It appears as though an interesting symbiosis has developed.

Servants in my uncle's house include a driver, a house maid and cook, and a guy who walks the dog. All of them seem pleasant and well mannered, and I'm especially fond of the driver, an older gentleman who's appears at home careening through cars and squeezing in between bikes and motorcycles, left hand on the stick, thumb of the right hand squarely on the horn. I remember feeling uncomfortable at the thought of hired help when I was a child during my last trip. Even after gaining some more understanding of the workings and harsh realities of the world, learning about the roles that must be played by different sectors of a society, a lasting discomfort remains.

The help, along with the poor I've seen on the streets, are generally much darker in complexion and have strong Dravidian features. It's clear that race as well as remnants of the caste system has played a huge role in determining the economic fates of Indians. Like the military back home, I know, through my uncle, that the service is an organization that is a true cross section of society, where effects of regulation and code regarding discrimination, unite high and low caste, light and dark members of society. Even on the military base, however, the complexion and caste of the servants remain the same.

This morning my uncle took me to the tennis courts on base. He introduced me to the guy that ran the two small courts outside the club and his staff of teenage boys, probably a little younger than me. I knocked the ball around with him for a while, hit some serves and got some exercise, but it was all a surreal experience. The kids wouldn't even let me pick up the balls. I thought, this is something for either the super rich or super talented, and I consider myself assuredly neither, especially since I can't imagine I've played poorer tennis in months. The surreal nature of the experience was added by the fact that it was 8am and already warm in addition to the beautiful, clear view of the sea. Luxury, or something like it. Can't say I was too down with it, though. It felt so odd being catered to, cheered and clapped for a half-decent shot or lackluster serve. Give me a decent racket, 3 balls, a public court and a willing opponent and that's the tennis I'm in love with.

More about the dual nature of Indian society and the idea of servitude later. I'm leaving this afternoon for Pune, a city of about 3 million, 150km west of Mumbai to visit more family, my other uncle and my cousins who are at home there.