How My Job as a Cultural Prostitute Changed the Way I Think About Money

On white naiveté at Indian weddings.

It’s August 2014, and I’m 22 years old. The Airbus A380 just landed at New Delhi Airport. With a stolen flight blanket under my arm, I’m walking through the jet bridge. I’m about to start a new life.

It’s my first paid internship abroad, and I’m excited because I don’t know yet that breathing Delhi air is equal to smoking 44 cigarettes a day and that I’ll soon have the worst job of my life.

I’m still in this moment of excitement when I hop into an overpriced cab and drive towards my new home.

I think about my university friends. They landed exchange semesters and scholarships. I didn’t. I failed one exam and didn’t qualify for the application. Yet, I still wanted to live abroad.

I applied for 49 business internships around the world. I spent weeks on research, cover letters, and CV optimization. I was positive to find a job abroad that will pay my living costs.

Hiring managers weren’t as optimistic. Turns out my previous jobs as a mail carrier, metalworker, cleaning lady, and retail sales assistant didn’t qualify me for a consultancy internship.

Ultimately, two offered me a paid internship. One job in Singapur, where the $500 monthly salary would have only paid the apartment for a week. And the other one here, in Delhi, at $350 monthly, from which I can pay for a shared apartment and food.

I gaze outside the cab’s window and feel genuinely proud, free, and sweaty.

A week later, I’m in a Riksha. I’m again sweaty and on my way home. It’s only been a few days, but I‘m in the middle of my second Riksha crash. My 3-year old MacBook had two severe bumps from the first, and I’m unsure whether it’ll survive the second crash. I can’t afford a new one, so I carefully hug my bag in front of my chest to protect it.

While hugging my computer and inhaling the bus gases right next to me, my excitement about being free and independent is gone. I’m pondering about last night's conversation. Another intern asked me to join a weekend trip to Rishikesh, the Yoga capital of the world.

I’m not yet into yoga. But I would love to leave the dirty city and join their trip. But I can’t afford it. My colleagues go without me, and I’m disappointed.

I’m sitting on the bed, wrapped in the airplane blanket I stole from the flight, electricity gone for a few hours, and I feel as far away from independent and free as it can get.

This was not the plan for my new life. After a day of self-pitying, I feel angry. I wish I hadn’t failed the exam and also won a scholarship. All I want is more money and true freedom to travel.

Out of my anger, I make a plan. I grab my Macbook and decide I’ll do whatever it takes to earn more money. I’ll find a second job that’ll pay me enough to travel. Making more will allow me to live the life I’m supposed to live.

One week later, I’m on a stage. 2000 people are staring at me. I’m in a white dress, and I’m supposed to look like an angel. But the way the wedding guests are looking at me, I rather feel like Hagrid pressed into a white outfit. The average Indian woman is 1,53m/5'0". I’m 1,77m/ 5'10".

As a giant angel, I’m also playing the violin. Except I’m not playing because I never learned to play the violin. In fact, I don’t even know how to hold that instrument. But I act as if I know and perform my version of giant angel violin karaoke.

Despite the awkwardness, I feel happy. One evening as a hostess at an Indian wedding makes half of my monthly internship salary.

I repeat this new job twice a week for two months. After my 10-hour business day, I go to the wedding venues. My tasks vary. Sometimes I’m a giant angel or Italian chef. Other times, I’m a bird of paradise.

I no longer spend my weekends in the Delhi flat. I take boat tours through Kerala’s backwaters, drink a Kingfisher at Goa’s beaches, watch the military ceremony at an Indian Pakistan border, and sleep in a houseboat with a view of the Himalayas. Thanks to the additional income, I enjoy India to the fullest.

It’s December 30th, 2014, and I’m sitting at the window seat of Airbus 380 back to Frankfurt. As the plane breaks through the smog, leaving the clouds beneath us and seeing the sun, I wrap a new airplane blanket around me.

I remember when I was sitting on my bed, feeling broke and lonely, worried that I would never have enough money to travel. I think about how I decided to do whatever it took to earn enough money to travel.

Gazing outside the airplane window, seeing the clouds get smaller with every inch we gain, I have an insight. I realize something I hadn’t heard in two years of business school. Maybe I didn’t want to think about it before. Maybe I tried to ignore it. But now I know for sure:

Not all money is worth earning. Money comes with a moral price tag.

Before accepting any new position, I think about questions like: Does this job discriminate against a group? Am I earning at the expense of others? Does my agreement keep an unjust system running?

I spent months of my life in cultural prostitution, exploiting people based on my skin. I supported racial injustice, playing by assigned roles at the benefit of personal travel. I agreed to earn 10x more because of my skin color. My greed turned me into an inequities accomplice.

Still, I’m grateful for my white hostess job in India. Because it forever changed the way I think about making money.

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