We are once again in Hyderabad, on the 7th floor of a hotel with a view. And we brought the heavy artillery, camera wise.
There is certainly something despicable about this situation, but after hours of pondering my guilt, I have decided that I can either ignore poverty and close the drapes, cry and send a check to an organization, or look at the view, analyze it, maybe learn something from it, and then send a check. Like I said before, guilt is a constant when you live in India.
We just witnessed one of the sweetest father-son interactions of the year so far. The people living below us have a well, made out of concrete, in which they gather rainwater and who knows what else. There is also a hose in there. It’s the shower room. You bring your bucket, dump it in the well and wash yourself off. But if you’re about seven years old, and Mom* sent you to fetch water for the dishes, and your arms are too short, and you don’t have a string attached to your bucket, you’re out of luck! Until Daddy comes to the rescue (click to enlarge pictures).
Daddies are supermen all over the world!
*I saw Mom slap that kid about an hour prior to the bucket incident.