Not poor enough

I admit it. Nothing gives me more joy than spending a few morning hours in a coffee shop, in the middle of a workweek. Nothing. Not a Marvel movie. Not the best pizza in the city. Not a romantic sunset. Not even Krit finishing his meal. Everywhere else, I usually lack focus and give in to distractions pretty easily. But the fantastic combination of caffeine and cheerful music works wonders. 

 

I have been trying to work on a research paper for a few weeks. I was looking at journals so I could tailor my article according to their specifications. After shortlisting a few, I realized I might need to pay a small fee because the publishing houses are kind enough to provide these articles free of cost for people to read. A way to go around this fee drama is that our institutions can buy memberships in the publishing houses. That way, we do not have to pay the fees individually. Unfortunately, I only know three institutions in the country that have actually bought these expensive subscriptions. And unfortunately for me, I do not work in any of these places.

 

A few resource-limited countries are exempt from this fee. India isn’t anymore. I find that unfair. It reminds me why India and I are in an odd place right now. She is rich enough to have the most advanced private medical care in the world, but poor enough to not pay the doctors. She is rich enough to offer me luxuries at par with the richest countries but also poor enough to not have a minimum-wage pay structure. She is rich enough not to get free access to publishers but poor enough not to afford membership for her medical schools either.

 

My relationship with my country is similar to a steady marriage between two people reasonably in love. Or maybe a mother-daughter relationship. There are parts of her that I absolutely hate. The work-life balance, the salary structure, the present situation of doctors and the cost of living to name a few. And there are parts of her that I absolutely love. The people, the diversity, the history and the feeling of home. Every few days, I bitch about her, consider leaving her for good and then plan on working hard on our relationship to make a real difference only to dismiss the idea later. But interestingly, I cannot handle somebody else talk ill about her. I alternatingly and sometimes simultaneously love and hate her. But I can. For she is mine. 

 

While I am awed by how she continues to grow every day in spite of all her struggles, I am also getting a little tired of all the drama. Maybe we will work it out. Maybe we won’t. Only time will tell. 

 

It is ironic how at the beginning of this post, I rambled on about how focused and productive I am in a cafe. Instead of finishing the article, I wrote this post. Ah, it has waited a while now, I guess it will have to wait some more. Some would say blogging is a different kind of productive. I must agree.