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He wobbled his head back and forth, which I quickly learned was a common Indian ges-
ture, meaning that the person heard what you were saying, even if they weren't sure they
knew how to respond. Dheeru continued, “My culture is kind and respectable. Everybody
is like a guest who comes in.”
After a few more minutes of chatting, I decided this was the type of man my holy friend
was pointing me toward. But then I remembered that after leaving him, I had stepped in
cow shit. So I asked my standard question with a bit of trepidation, “Is there any way that
today I could stay in your house?”
“My house?” he responded, looking very confused. The kind of confused that says,
“Why does this white man with a yellow motorbike want to stay in my house?”
“Yes,” I replied.
But then Dheeru's eyes opened wide and he wobbled his head, replying, “Yes, you could
stay in my house. My place has a lot of people living in it.”
Long live Indian rickshaw drivers! Long live Dheeru!
That day was a holiday in India, and thus the streets were somewhat empty (which made
me wonder what they might look like full). Dheeru had far fewer customers than usual, so
he offered to take me back to his home to meet his family. I had been forewarned never
to go to the slums of India. I had heard stories of people being robbed, beaten, some even
killed. I had been told that Westerners do not go to the slums. Well, this Westerner had
heeded enough warnings for one trip. I felt safe in Dheeru's presence, and I remembered
the old man's words at the ashram, “Meet India. Love her. That will be your gift.”
Dheeru drove me in his rickshaw to the slum where he and his wife and two sons lived
in a one-room shack. In one bed.
His wife brewed us some chai as we went outside and he told me about their life. We sat
in lawn chairs that could have once been in the backyard of any American home.
I asked Dheeru, “So you've told me how hard it is to make a living in India. How much
do you make a week, if you don't mind me asking?”
He looked at his wife as she came outside with the tea. Wobbling his head before reply-
ing, “Rickshaw is very hard. If don't get customers for two, three days, no eat.“
“So sometimes you and your family do not eat for two or three days?” I asked, over-
whelmed at the thought that his whole family would go hungry.
“Yes,” Dheeru explained, as though it was the simplest fact. “It depends on my work. If
I work, we eat . . .”
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