"If only I could freeze this time of the day and live in it for 8 hours."
That's what she thought to herself as she hurried up the side street leading from her corner of the city to its main road. It was just pre-dawn, and the unparalleled noise and congestion that characterize India were still just a muted rumble. In the dusky light, few people were about, comparatively speaking, and even fewer noticed that she was a foreigner, or had the gall to shout it out to the rest of the pedestrian world. It was a welcome respite from the usual onslaught of stares and comments in her somewhat provincial city. Since it was only March, the weather still had the courtesy to cool down a bit at night. So, although it would hit the mid-90s again today, for the moment the air was brisk, refreshing. Despite being laden with its normal potpurri of burning trash, fumes emanating from the poo field nearby, and exhaust, it was the kind of air that made you want to do something, made you feel you could act, could matter.
Find a rick, catch it, and get to the station in time for her train; those were her immediate tasks. A year ago, she would have been terrified to be doing this alone. She was still furious with herself for how little her Hindi had progressed since she had hit the turf here a year and a half ago. But, she had to admit, she must have made at least a modicum of progress, for now she could complete this journey with few qualms.
She was convinced that allowing yourself to again become incompetent, dependent, and laughable was one of the greater sacrifices of moving overseas. It was like being a teenager again, struggling to figure out how to accomplish things and be respected by the world...and she had never wanted to revisit those years.
A rick rumbled up beside her pretty quickly this morning, and she wedged herself into it among the four people and driver already inside. "Another skill I've developed: pretzeling. Too bad I can't put this on a resume, or get my friends back home to appreciate just how admirable it is," she thought ruefully. Reaching the station, she extracted her limbs and coughed up 10 rupees.
As she climbed the steps up, over the tracks, and then down to her platform, she couldn't help but see the usual array of beggars, littered on the stairs and tossed into corners of the fencing. Old, dirty, one younger guy with missing legs. She had once seen a man with a bit of intestines poking out of his stomach, catching his waste in a filthy rag as it dripped out of his gaping side. Her friend had explained that this was the procedure reserved for those who couldn't afford a colostomy bag. It had made her shudder.
All of this still made her convulse a bit internally, although she had mastered a level of the acquiescence that is required in order to cope.
"I almost hope they have mental disabilities too," she thought, "so that they don't have to realize just how terrible their lives are. Is it awful and inhuman to hope something like that? Probably. I don't even know anymore....I'm losing my objectivity."
She was there doing social work, and she believed that she and the rest of the team at their start-up NGO were beginning to make a difference, perhaps bringing some pinpricks of light where there were none before.
"But it's just one rupee in 100 million crores worth of suffering in this world. How desperately we do need our Great Hope."
That's what she thought to herself as she hurried up the side street leading from her corner of the city to its main road. It was just pre-dawn, and the unparalleled noise and congestion that characterize India were still just a muted rumble. In the dusky light, few people were about, comparatively speaking, and even fewer noticed that she was a foreigner, or had the gall to shout it out to the rest of the pedestrian world. It was a welcome respite from the usual onslaught of stares and comments in her somewhat provincial city. Since it was only March, the weather still had the courtesy to cool down a bit at night. So, although it would hit the mid-90s again today, for the moment the air was brisk, refreshing. Despite being laden with its normal potpurri of burning trash, fumes emanating from the poo field nearby, and exhaust, it was the kind of air that made you want to do something, made you feel you could act, could matter.
Find a rick, catch it, and get to the station in time for her train; those were her immediate tasks. A year ago, she would have been terrified to be doing this alone. She was still furious with herself for how little her Hindi had progressed since she had hit the turf here a year and a half ago. But, she had to admit, she must have made at least a modicum of progress, for now she could complete this journey with few qualms.
She was convinced that allowing yourself to again become incompetent, dependent, and laughable was one of the greater sacrifices of moving overseas. It was like being a teenager again, struggling to figure out how to accomplish things and be respected by the world...and she had never wanted to revisit those years.
A rick rumbled up beside her pretty quickly this morning, and she wedged herself into it among the four people and driver already inside. "Another skill I've developed: pretzeling. Too bad I can't put this on a resume, or get my friends back home to appreciate just how admirable it is," she thought ruefully. Reaching the station, she extracted her limbs and coughed up 10 rupees.
As she climbed the steps up, over the tracks, and then down to her platform, she couldn't help but see the usual array of beggars, littered on the stairs and tossed into corners of the fencing. Old, dirty, one younger guy with missing legs. She had once seen a man with a bit of intestines poking out of his stomach, catching his waste in a filthy rag as it dripped out of his gaping side. Her friend had explained that this was the procedure reserved for those who couldn't afford a colostomy bag. It had made her shudder.
All of this still made her convulse a bit internally, although she had mastered a level of the acquiescence that is required in order to cope.
"I almost hope they have mental disabilities too," she thought, "so that they don't have to realize just how terrible their lives are. Is it awful and inhuman to hope something like that? Probably. I don't even know anymore....I'm losing my objectivity."
She was there doing social work, and she believed that she and the rest of the team at their start-up NGO were beginning to make a difference, perhaps bringing some pinpricks of light where there were none before.
"But it's just one rupee in 100 million crores worth of suffering in this world. How desperately we do need our Great Hope."
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