Just Across The Road
There are many countries on earth where the line between survival and prosperity seems like an impassable gulf, but few seem to be so ever-present as India.
For many, India is a spiritual gift but my relationship with this enchanting country is very different. Looking through the rose-colored glasses of passing time, I can honestly say I have been lucky to visit this amazing country dozens of times. Something I could have never imagine from my early beginnings, living with my mother, sister and brother in a caravan park on the edge of an unremarkable country town.
Yet India for me is work, film work to be exact. I get hired to tend my vision to the highest bidder and although this is greatly appreciated, I always feel drawn to Bombay's underbelly. A fascinating place where survival is a real drama played out every day.
On one such visit, I venture to the foreshore of the Arabian Sea, just beyond the perceived safety of the hotel's front gates. I was expecting very little from this short stroll but the reality could not have been further from the truth.
Upon reaching the shoreline, I did predictably do what most do, took in the view, shot a couple of unremarkable photos and thought what now. Sensing movement behind me, I turned and was greeted by a sight that will be engrained on my soul for the rest of my living days.
What I saw just made no sense to me. In the foreground sat many who have very little and just behind them resided a few who seemed to have it all. A single road separated the two lifestyles but it was a road that in many ways seemed impassable.
I stood there like a privileged tourist trying to understand this world we have built. Moments later, a young man who'd finished bathing in the sea came up beside me and said, "do you like my home?” I smiled at him and replied, "Which one is yours"? He returned the smile and said, "come, I will show you."
We walked together, two men from different planets heading towards the same destination. At the front door, he paused and smiled, pushing the door open and said "welcome." I crossed the threshold of his humble home to find three tiny rooms.
A kitchen of sorts and two bedrooms. I asked, "how many people live here?" To which he replied twenty. He must have seen the shock on my face and went on to explain that they sleep in shifts, eat in shifts and do the best they can with what they have.
The house tour was brief but beautifully honest as the conversation continued while sharing a cup of tea looking out across a million-dollar view of the ocean. As he became comfortable, my new friend began to tell me about his life.
A young man who drove a rickshaw (Indian taxi) during the day and worked in a restaurant at night, while spending his spare time studying. I had no idea what to say; how can a man who was willing to work this hard have so very little?
He smiled, sensing my confusion, and simply said, "it's ok." We shared a sunset view and drank tea together as family came and went, and as the sun faded, we both knew we were sharing a moment that would live with us forever.
Entering my hotel, I looked out of my window and wondered, where is my real home?
Is it the place that invites me in or is it the place with the high walls designed to keep him out? Or is it just where ever I find myself, thankful for the experience all have to offer?