The Girl

I finalized my housing a few days ago after a hard sell from Meena Gupta – mother of 2 beautiful boys, wife of Mahesh who runs two factories making laptop straps, and silver-jewelry maker extraordinaire. I am paying $91 for the month. And at the end of our negotiating she threw in one last close – for an extra $11 I could have “the girl” clean my room/bathroom each day and wash my clothes for me. I just paid $85 per night at the Southern Star and no one was doing my laundry, we had a deal.

After moving my rolling home into the room I introduced myself to the boys and to “the girl.” Ashish (the booky-brainy boy) and Ashwin (the trouble maker) were quick to chat with me about about my yoga and my job and my boyfriend. I asked the girl her name and she mumbled in response, I then asked her to spell it for me and she gave me a blank stare. I turned to Ashish and asked again. “Rena, R-E-N-A,” Ashish reported in perfect English, he could be the star of Akeelah the Bee 2.

I returned later that evening in the middle of family dinner. The family was seated at the dining room table and pleaded with me to share some of their food, I attempted to decline about 16 times until I caved in and had a small plate. After I finished I passed by the kitchen and saw Rena eating her food in the corner on the floor. I felt some tightness in my chest and walked into my room and closed the door. Every conscience has an off switch somewhere. And sometimes in India I have to use mine more than I like.

I walked out my door at 6 the next morning for yoga to find Rena sleeping on a mat outside my door. This time the switch didn’t turn off. I don’t get it. The “help” I grew up with were Aunts and Uncles and neighbors and me when my brother and sister appeared (which I remind them of constantly). And even if we did have help, I can’t imagine them sitting in our pantry eating their food in a corner or sleeping on a mat in our hallway when there is more than enough chairs, more than enough food and more than enough couches.

I can intellectualize it. We have all heard of the supposedly abolished India caste system. But we also know this is not reality – obviously not in Gokulam, the almost exclusively Brahmin neighborhood I am staying in. Rena is 14 years old, her family is from the village and she earns good money for them in Meena’s house – education is not an option when its opportunity cost is a hungry mouth or sick family member who needs medicine. She is a lucky girl to have this job.

But I can’t stomach it. I could feel my belly dance around my knees when I passed her mat on the way to my yoga class, no, its not going to let me settle this one for a few days.

I learned later that morning that Rena is sick and Meena is taking her to the doctor. Apparently she hasn’t menstruated in 5 months. I wanted to get up on my soapbox and yell, “If you called her by her name and asked her to share the meals she has cooked for you and gave her a soft bed to sleep on maybe she would start feeling more like a woman and menstruate!” But swallowed my yell and said, “Meena, that is so kind of you as I am sure she would not be able to afford the doctor on her own.”