Neerag

The self-proclaimed manager of my hotel, Neerag, delivered my laundry to me a couple of days ago and requested I pay twenty rupees for the cleaning of my jeans, instead of the agreed upon ten. I told him judiciously that he had said ten to begin with and he couldn't renege now. His eyes filled with liquid melancholy and he looked at me with a silent whine. I didn't know whether his tears were real or just a show for the new girl in the guesthouse. But, I stood my ground and refused to pay him the ten extra rupees. He left the room. This was just one of many business transactions I've conducted with a twelve year old during my stay in Rishikesh.

Even though Neerag is just a boy, I couldn't let him take advantage of me. As a result of my refusal, Neerag wasn't happy with me for the rest of the day, but after he delivered a bucket of hot water that evening for my bath, I gave him ten rupees for his effort. His eyes smiled. He said, "Why?" I said, "Because."

Neerag has a skinny brown body and drags his feet when he walks, but he has a sweet smile and black hair that flops across his forehead. He wears the same plaid button-down shirt, fit for a man three times his size, every day. And every morning, he's up at 6:30 to start his work. From what I can gather from a couple of broken-English conversations with him, Neerag came to Rishikesh ten months ago leaving his mother, father, and an older brother behind in his village (I asked if he has sisters, but ironically, he doesn't seem to know that word).

He claims that the man who runs this little place—six simple rooms and a small rooftop restaurant—is his uncle. Maybe this is true. But, any casual observer can see that Neerag really holds the reins, and hence, deserves to dub himself "Manager" with a straight face. He cleans the rooms, tends to the bathrooms, sets room rates, heats and ferries buckets of hot water (none of the bathrooms have hot water), takes food orders, busses tables, and does the laundry.

I'm not sure when he goes to sleep, but when I came out of my room one night after 11 PM to wash my face across the hall, he was curled on the floor in a pile of blankets. He sleeps on top of a woven mat, and under a wool blanket in the open area between the rooms. When I first saw him there, I thought about letting him sleep in my room on the floor. At least it would be warmer than the drafty hallway. But, I reasoned, it wouldn't do much good at all in the long term, and I'd probably set a bad precedent—from here on out he'd expect young American ladies to invite him into their rooms.

Neerag doesn't go to school. He doesn't play, and even if he did, he doesn't have any children to play with or the time to play. He sees his family two or three times a year. The opportunity for earning money here (and learning English from tourists, for that matter) is seen by his family as much more beneficial and lucrative than sending him to school which would cost money. I have come to learn that Neerag's story is not unique. Quite often, children are sent by their families to big cities like Delhi and Bombay, or touristy places like Rishikesh, to make money. Neerag is just one of several young boys I've seen slaving away during my trip.

I asked him, before I left the guesthouse, if I could take his photograph, but he refused. I don't think he didn't want to—I think he just felt too shy. He leaned against the wall, and he got very silent. I asked him one more time, but he shook his head, "No." I gave him an unnecessarily large tip, and he walked out quietly to get a broom to clean out my room and make it ready for a new traveler.

I wonder what he would rather be doing. Certainly, not this.