| Sunny Side Up July 7, 2004 �2004, Kathleen Gibson Getting past the fairy tales The suitcases I lugged around India held a passel of gifts for my new friends. Few were as eagerly accepted as my wee Canadian flag pins. Fairy tales about the rich West abound in the lesser privileged countries of the East. Emigrating to Canada is the stuff dreams are made of. On dusty village streets children surrounded me, holding up a small finger and begging for 'just one flag, madam.' "Canada, Canada, Canada!" They made a chant of it, giggling and darting to and fro, their colorful clothing flashing like hummingbirds' wings in the sun. Even the adults' faces lit up when I showed them how to fasten the pins to their saris or the men's immaculately pressed shirts - fresh from under the coal-filled sad irons of the village dobi. "Canada? Like America?" many asked. I said, "A little. We are neighbours." And I steeled myself for the next question, which inevitably followed. "How much money you make in Canada?" I'd noticed several things about India. The poorest village homes may have had dung or dirt floors, but many also had servants to do the menial tasks like laundry, fetching water, washing dishes. Children usually. Grateful for their meager wage - daily rice, and a piece of floor to sleep on at night. I'd also noticed the marble and stone floors in the homes of those who were somewhat better off. Marble and stone are abundant there, and labor cheap. So I learned to answer that question about how much money I make in Canada. "Not enough to have servants," I'd say, "and not enough to have marble floors." They laughed then, almost hysterically. Astonished that in a land of such perceived richness, the citizens would stoop to servility. On the plane trip home, 500,000 feet up, somewhere between Hyderabad and Korea, my seatmate, a young Indian medical doctor shyly asked this, "I've always wondered about you people in America. Who does your ironing?" "I seldom iron," I admitted. "If you take the clothes from the dryer right away, they don't need ironing." She shuddered. "But they're still somewhat rumpled." I laughed. "Well, I don't mind a few rumples. If they're really bad, I iron them." "My God!" she exclaimed, her face a study of wonder. "You do your own ironing?" I seem to recall giving her a Canadian flag pin too, one of my last, to remind her that fairy tales, even those concerning the country of my heart, are seldom true. In truth, I came home wondering about the poverty and richness of both our countries, and our skewed perceptions of each other. I went to India expecting poverty. I found it, oh yes, I found it. But I came home blown away by its wealth of spirit, its generosity, its ineffable, effusive joy, especially among India's despised Christians - qualities sadly lacking among many 'rich' Canadians. We have countless fairy tales to correct, I think concerning the propaganda of wealth and poverty. You can respond to this column at [email protected] |
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