There it lay. A pair of the most ordinary plain black track pants. I hadn’t even given it a second thought. Why should have I? I needed a pair of tracks for dance class so I went and bought one; it was simple as that.
…
“Don’t take too long. Your father is waiting for us in the car,” my mom said as she shoved her credit card towards me.

I ran into the brightly lit Reebok shop, expertly sidestepped the smiling-too-eagerly shop assistant and picked up the first pair of tracks I could find.

As a general rule, I never buy anything before trying it on. Thankfully, a dressing room was empty and I tried on the track pants without much delay. They fitted just fine.

Without missing a step, I walked towards the cashier and handed him the pants without as much as a cursory glance towards the price tag.
“Have a nice day!” he beamed at me as he handed me my newly bought merchandise.

And that was it.
….
The pants lay forgotten on my bed. I hadn’t even bothered to take them out of the bag. I was too busy stalking my friends and ‘not friends’ on facebook.

“Aaj naye kapre khareed ke layi ho?” (You have bought new clothes today?)

I turned around and looked into the wrinkled, tired and yet somehow still warm face of Bharti didi. Her silver hair was neatly tied up in a bun and her simple white sari hung loosely around her frail frame. Bharti didi, my maid, was standing there, folding my freshly laundered clothes and putting them into the cupboard. I replied in the affirmative and got back to what I was doing.

Soon, I heard the sound of paper crinkling followed by a gasp. “Ek hazaar rupye!” (One-thousand-rupees! (20 dollars)) My maid must have been putting my inconsequential little purchase into my cupboard when she noticed the price.

“Itna mehenga!”(So expensive!) she exclaimed.

I remained quiet. What was I supposed to say? How could I look into the eyes of the woman who’d been with me since the day I had been born and tell her that Rs. 1000 had almost no value for me when I knew that her monthly salary was just about. Rs.2500.

“Foreign se aaya huya hoga naa?” (It must from abroad, right?) she asked me.

“Haan. Baahar se aaya he. Isliye thora sa mehenga hai,” (Yes, it has been imported. That’s why it is priced like this.) I replied.

Yes, we do provided her with housing, food, clothes and basic amenities but that did not change the fact that her salary remained worth half a party dress, or maybe a meal for four at an average restaurant. And what’s even sadder is that this measly wage that we were paying would be considered competitive compared to others.

“Accha. Iska theek se dhyan rakhna,” she said gingerly folding it keeping it carefully into my closet. (Okay. Now we need to take good care of this.)

And with that she left. She left, as was routine, to complete the next task of her long day.

I, however, could not carry on my day as if it was just any other day. Born and brought up in New Delhi, I have had people serving me since as long as I can remember. It just the way life is here. Almost every household in Delhi has at least one domestic worker employed. There is a surplus supply of workers, which the demand readily meets. After all, even the poor and illiterate need to earn their living. And there’s really not much unskilled labour can be employed for.

Over 22 percent of Indians live below the poverty line. Even more must be just barely above it. I had studied about it in school, how rampant poverty is one of the key problems developing India faces and how the social fabric needs to be changed. I was even aware that 30 percent of Indians are illiterate. The various government schemes to promote education take up pages and pages in my economics textbook.

But these are just facts and figures. What struck a chord with me was that the woman who lived with me in my home and looked after my every need, I didn’t even know the names of her family members. I didn’t even know how her hometown was; I didn’t even know what conditions she lived in; I didn’t even know what her home looked like.

Something that held such little value for the slightly more affluent parts of society could be such a novelty for the remaining parts. I’d always known this; but I never thought about it.

…
It was just a pair of ordinary plain black track pants. I hadn’t even given it a second thought while buying them. Why should have I?

I still have them, lying safely I my closet. Careworn and no longer new, they are still in passably good condition given the care they have received.

That simple conversation took place over two years ago. Nothing much has changed in my domestic set-up. But that one conversation is just scarred at the back of my mind.

I am no longer an apathetic operant in a complex society. I don’t take even the most trivial things for granted any longer. It’s time for things to change. And I know, we need to be the catalysts of change.