Below the Surface
Welcome to my random musings about the world, on a weekly-to-occasional basis.
Where we are: Tokyo, Japan
Below the Surface
Lee and I spent some time in India, several years ago. There was much (so much!) about those two months that was memorable, but I’ve been thinking a lot lately about Pradeep.
In Delhi, we stayed in an Airbnb, hosted by the man who owned the building. He showed us around when we arrived, explaining that we could have breakfast at the bakery on the ground floor. The three upper floors each contained a rental apartment; the building’s caretaker was a man named Pradeep.
“Pradeep and his wife are always here; they live downstairs. They will clean the apartment every day. If you need them to do laundry, just leave it on this table, and they’ll bring it back the next day. If there’s any problem with the apartment, tell Pradeep, or if you need help with anything. Also, if you need anything printed, just ask him.”
Pradeep was a fixture in the building, running up and down the stairs, carrying luggage, cleaning supplies, laundry, linens. He was almost always around if we needed something; pretty much all we had to do was step out into the stairwell, and he was usually within earshot.
One day, though, we had to get a fairly large document printed, for a visa application. Lee wanted me to go find Pradeep, and ask him to print it for us. Lee always wants me to be the one to have these interactions, because he has some crazy idea that I understand people better than he does. He is mistaken on this front.
Nonetheless, I set out, phone in hand, to find Pradeep. For the first time since we’d arrived, I couldn’t find him. I got down to the ground floor, and realized that there was a basement level, so I (hesitantly) started down the last set of stairs.
At the bottom of the stairs was Pradeep’s home. He wasn’t there, but his two adolescent sons were; one was sitting on a stool, one foot wrapped in ragged bandages, staring at a phone with the rapt attention that all teenagers, everywhere, direct toward screens. The other was hovering over a burbling pot of beans. A tank of propane powered the portable burner.
The basement was one room, lit by a single bare bulb dangling from the ceiling. There were no windows; the only natural light came from the narrow door to the stairwell. On one side of the room was a couch, piled with folded quilts and sheets. Next to it was a small table, with an ancient desktop computer on top. There was more furniture, shadowy in the dim corners of the room. I tried not to stare, but I remember being shocked by peeling paint, concrete walls, creeping mildew—the whole grim picture of grinding poverty.
One of the teenaged boys yelled up the stairs, and I stood awkwardly in the middle of the room, afraid to touch anything, desperately trying not to be rude, while we waited for Pradeep to return. The other son looked up from his phone, and tried out his few words of English, welcoming me.
And then I realized that there was a clothes line stretched across the room. All of my underwear and bras were hanging there, above our heads—mine and the teenaged boys. It was one of those awkward moments that was probably only in my head, but it’s seared into my memory forever. Pradeep eventually showed up, booted up a crotchety old printer, and with evident pride and no small effort, printed out our document.
A couple of days ago, when the prime minister of India extended the country’s lockdown (which began three weeks ago and has been particularly strict) for three more weeks, I thought of Pradeep and his family. I wonder how they’re faring, stuck in that basement together for all these weeks?
From my writer’s notebook:
Check out Banksy’s latest Instagram post, about working from home. It made me laugh.
Take care,
Lisa
P.S. Thanks for reading, and feel free to share. If you have feedback, I’d love to hear it. And if someone forwarded this to you, thank them for me, and go to https://bookwoman.com/ to subscribe.