Apathy is a luxury

Strangled wails of Hindi music leak out of crumbling buildings, tales of love and sorrow blending with beeping horns. I gasp at sleepers on sidewalks, cows sauntering through traffic, and the juxtaposition of new and ancient.

It is midnight and thirty four degrees Celsius. I am in Chennai on the southeast coast of India.

At dawn the next day, a cool air beckons me awake and I tap up the stairs to the rooftop where I am gloriously alone. A red sun streaks across the silent sky above an undisturbed Indian Ocean as songs of Islamic prayer ring through the stillness.

Later, my guide takes me to a shopping district. We wade into a sea of traffic, the smell of dhosas mingling with sewerage and high-pitched yells from kids selling plastic toys.

On the bus home, a mother hauls up a tiny naked baby, and begs through the bars of the window. A scared self desires to wind the glass up forever, to exterminate the vision of hungry eyes from my mind.

The rumbling in my heart echoes the thunder of the murky sky and the clouds erupt, drenching the hot ground with fat drops.

Heavenly streams wipe away ancient troubles, and on the rooftop I dance and twirl and laugh in the child-like pleasure of soaked clothes. My elated revelation swamps me: this is the only way to know India. I must be saturated, I must ride autos, feel the desperation of poverty, get lost and talk to strangers. I must taste street food, and suffer Delhi Belly.

That evening, I wave goodbye to seaside Chennai and board the night train to Mysore. Sipping my hot chai, I meander through endless carriages.

Watching the shadowy landscape evolve from coloured buildings to quiet rice paddies, I consider the words of a friend: “Apathy is the luxury of the rich.”

On the train rocking gently through the eternal night, I understand that the cost of buying cheap goods in the West is reflected on lives in the developing world. After experiencing poverty up close, apathy is a luxury I will sacrifice freely.