Sometimes, I marvel at the Indian dream, and how it has changed. Whilst the rich get richer; the poor dream bigger.In my little world, lives have flourished with time and technology. And so, my house help dreams of a weekly trip to the hyper market, the watchman clacks away on his cellphone, and the gully boys trade about their MP3 players. In another world too, I hear of a remarkable story.
The story of the son of a moustached man who worked as a technician at my Uncle’s office. Of the son of the man who was my Uncle’s right hand office help, of the man who's eyes always shone in the fifteen years he watched me grow up. He stood by like solid rock; often with worried eyes and weary hands. Until, he lost his wife to cancer. He weeped then. And, worried of his sons who were scouring the villages, drinking themselves silly and dropping out of college. Thankfully, one of them was pursuing an Educational degree, he said. But, even the poor know the adversities of the Indian Education system.
He called, yesterday. His voice sounded animated. I imagined his eyes sparkle. His wayward son had found his way back home. And, landed a job as a physical trainer at the swanky Gold gym. I smiled. Even if the economy was crippling, a speckle of India was shining. An ordinary boy from an Indian slum could dream beyond it's small scale industries. And, he didn't have to be extraordinary. Marvelous, I think. This changing Indian dream.
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