Home?

Just when I think the world lacks humanity
as hopelessness drains the spirit from my heart,
and poverty seems so endless and the solutions futile,
the shopowner who sits "Indian-style"
upon the counter of his business
below my apartment building
greets me with his usual
"Good morning Mama!"
as he nicknames me with a lovably hilarious mispronunciation of "Emma,"
the security guard in uniform outside the rich hotel
smiles and waves,
never seeming to tire of seeing me pass him every single day,
the dogs on Chowringhee yield,
barking at everyone but me,
the soccer player again invites me to play
with their pick-up team on the Maidan,
and I return from my run along Grant Street,
only to pass my beloved water boy carrying out his duties.
We recognize each other in strange elation and I fold my hands toward him in respect
and I grin naturally, to my surprise,
as I realize that despite its crimes and horrors,
Kolkata is my home.

To Firos Khan

You say you are a social worker with Mother Theresa
bringing ill patients from the countryside to the Mother House
for medical care
We talk about serving the poor and needy.
You seem like my kind of person!
We are friends. Let's go visit Shiva Temple.
You show me around, giving me a history of Hinduism.
The lingham, Shiva, Kali, Durga, Ganesha...
We see all the great gods and goddesses amidst the largest Hindu temple in India.
You say the art museum is closed on Sundays, too bad for me.
And anyway it costs 100 Rs which is not worth it to see the textiles you see in the Mughol town.
Handmade silks and saris, famous to Varanasi.

You bring me there on your motorcycle, commenting on how expensive petrol is--autorickshaws are so costly these days, 90 Rs/liter.

We see silk being woven by hand, it is made with cardboard hole-patter guides to create the design

and then woven onto looms.

Only the Mughol town with the community of Muslims makes it from real silk, the other are fake and charge ridiculous prices, you explain.

"You are lucky because today is the Mughol festival--the warehouse gives 50% discount all day." You tell me this.

We sit with a salesman at the "government-run" export warehouse. "Not tourist prices" he says.

I browse through gorgeous bedsheets and silk stoles.

The cheapest item is 325 Rs, a ridiculous asking for a single scarf.

All other items are at least 700.

325 is nothing, you say. Those cheaper scarves are poor quality. These are the real silk, handmade you see. I bargain down to 150 Rs, though I feel I am being ripped off anyway. We leave and you ask me if I want a ride to the railway station in the morning. You don't ask money. You treat me with chai 3 times today. You say a stupid crook must have booked your train from Moghulsarai instead of Varanasi, the closer station. It is so far, maybe 500 Rs by auto! You will take us, you insist. I offer to pay some for petrol. You insist, then 100 Rs at least for petrol, for tomorrow. Give you now, because you have no money left. You must fill up for the morning. I see. Do I trust you? I do owe you some money for our trip tomorrow. But I think of my friend's story of the man who made off with her money after gaining her trust. I say I need the money for the hotel, whose name I won't give you. No, I can't give you 100 Rs. You are angry now. You demand it. You have no money. You need at least 50 you say. I offer you 20. What can I do with that? I give you 50. Indeed it costs 90 Rs/ liter. We will meet tomorrow at 8 am at Gaudalia Crossing. You will fill up your petrol and will take us both to Moghulsarai station on the motorcycle. You call me 5 times in the morning to confirm. We arrive and you say that Moghulsarai is much too far to ride both of us on your motorcycle. Best to take an autorickshaw. You have already ordered one for 300 Rs. This is quite expensive for us you know. You say just ask any others and you will jump off your seat at how much they charge! My friend makes me get in. But you promised to take us to the station! What about the 50 Rs for your petrol!? Best take an autorickshaw. The 50 Rs is another story you say. Why not trust me? You keep saying. I am furious. We go with no choice. Will you call me in Calcutta, yes? Why would I do that? You are a cheater sir. It is not the 50 Rs. I owed you at least that much for your knowledge. But you took back your promise with no warning. And I know you got commission for setting up our auto-rickshaw; that is just how it works. I know you got commission from that silk warehouse, which was certainly not a real warehouse at sale prices after I have seen the same products at much cheaper on the streets and consulted my handicraft friends. Also did you know that I was looking out the window into the art museum? It said "open." And you offer me a cheap place to stay with you in Kolkata, only 1500 a month. Meet me in Kolkata and we speak Bengali, I teach you cooking. I come from a wealthy family, I don't ever ask for money. No worry no hurry no thank you no sorry. You say you only help special tourists. You continuously call my phone, you want to know my address. When you command my trust that is when it ends. You want to meet me in Kolkata? Maybe if I was not stupid, and if the real price of petrol wasn't only 54 Rs/liter.

Oh India

Why do you pull my limbs from my torso?
Have you no conscience?
Have you no respect?
Your people assault me,
And affront my senses with terrors.
You are absolutely primitive and viscious.
You prey on me as a falcon upon an unknowing mouse.
Your tricks
Your lies
Your vanities
Your obnoxious friendliness is like an over-iced cake.
Your cheaters feed me such things.
Do you see your sins?
Or do you ignore your horrifying misdeeds, excusing them as survival?
Oh how I hate you India.
Hate is a strong work for a strong place.
You torture me.
Your cleverness is uncanny,
Your misguidance surreal.
Is this a dream?
Because it could not be true what you have told me.
If it is, this world is a broken place.
Perhaps irreparable.
Why do you teach deception?
Why do you breed selfishness?
Why do you exhale hatred?
It is a wonder you have not yet swallowed me
to rot within the bowels of your hell.
Instead you merely chew me slowly and cruelly,
piece by piece,
crushing my idealism, breaking my hope,
draining my soul
If I escape I will be merely alive
Left deformed as the beggars who plague your streets,
Merely the refuse of your factory,
Doomed to a life of despair and neglect
Spare me India!
Or at least leave me my eyes untouched.
For you have already removed my eyelids
Permanently
Forcing me to witness the crimes of humanity
I only wish to see
So that I may protect my body from the bites of flies
While you devour my insides and cripple my heart.
Oh India have mercy.

Oh thin orphan child,

Your arm circumference measures 13 cm.
Anything less than 13. 5 signifies malnourishment.
Your hair is thin and yellow with no shine.
Your mouth has ulcerations for lack of Vitamin B.
Your eyes are dry with Vitamin A deficiency.
Will you go blind next year?
But you do not understand perhaps, these emergent signals.
Indeed, you are only 5 years old.
Approximately.
Because you have no guardian to count your age.
Nor one to feed you.
Nor one to hold you.
To brush your teeth, clean your body or delouse your hair.
Oh babe, do you see the injustice of your reality?
You know nothing besides this prison.
Under a roof you are fed rice and potatoes.
Maybe.
And put to sleep with 68 others.
During the day, you "learn."
Among the chaos of this "school."
For lunch, you compete with 190 other children for food.
Are you still hungry?
Your caretakers will ingest pleasureably the remaining nutrients.
If their arms were thin as yours I would snap them now.

To the children of Varanasi

Oh Akash,
you work for your father in electronics
instead of going to school
Oh Pujina
you sell postcards to tourists
but you cannot read or write
Oh Rahini
you sell flowers
all night long
class is not important
Oh children of Varanasi
Your families rely on your labor
Do they see the value in literacy?
Or does the income from these tiny sales suffice?
You will only become as good as your parents
You can only follow in their footsteps
They know not how to stray from this path
Oh mother and father
Why not give them the tools to be better than you?
Maybe I am ignorant
I do not understand what it is like to support your family
Isn't it fair?
He is part of the family so he must work
Children are able
We need that income
But listen!
Postcards, flowers, tourists and commissions,
These may provide some change for food
But never the enlightenment
Of real knowledge
Never the power of education
Oh child,
Won't you please come to school?

Oh Buddha

contemplating within a stone chamber cave for 6 years you ponder meaning living in solitude nothing do you lack nothing do you need but time and silence in  here you rest escaping material possessions emotions and life itself oh how I desire your wisdom have you gained enlightenment? will you obtain nirvana or repeat the cycle of reincarnation chakra karma oh destiny oh nothingness oh peace please tell me what are you thinking

 

do you hear

 

om

Lice

As I furiously comb the seemingly benign colorless critters from my scalp I have finally paid the consequence of my admittedly poor hygiene. I even recall the moment at which I contracted the lice, as I posed for a picture with the small slum girl at the orphanage after drawing her portrait. I knew I was testing my luck since she had just received permethrin from the doctors for the treatment of this common annoyance. After having attempted to conserve resources by washing my hair only 2 times a week for the past few years, and having forgotten the last time I even owned a comb, I admit my unattention to cleanliness as I am sorely regretful of my shampoo stinginess. Instead now, I wash my hair and body twice per day with a vengeance hoping to rid my head of these parasites. Though thankfully not life-threatening, I cannot help but feel embarassingly filthy as I scratch blindly trying futilely to loosen the insects' grip upon my flesh.

Sharing the work

Today I finally sucked it up and left the paint palettes in the sink for the "helper" despite my unfading guilt for leaving menial labor to others to do. Though I still would have preferred to do the cleaning up myself, I decided to force myself to participate in a culture where absolutely every task is assigned to a designated person whose entire livelihood relies on others leaving that very task to them to complete. While servants, maids, washers, and sweepers may be viewed by the West as luxuries or simply as the lower class, here, they are a necessary functional unit of daily life. If you can afford to pay for your laundry to be done, why wouldn't you? Why bother cleaning your dishes and floors when you can hire a maid? Why clean up your garbage when it will be swept up and even sorted for recycling by a street sweeper and a rag picker? Why pump your own water when it can be brought to your bathroom by a water boy? It is not merely a matter of obvious convenience, but the fact that spending money for someone else to take over these duties is employing a huge population of society and indeed by not taking part we deny these people their work. However, I still must stifle my instinct to be independent and self-sufficient, with my American tendency toward avoiding help of any kind. I have yet to delegate dish-washing and laundry to someone, even when these chores are clearly time-wasting. At the same time, I have no choice that my host mom hires a water boy, a maid, helpers in the house, a bread boy, and children to buy even her chapatis from the shop downstairs. But rather than seem like superfluous spending or unnecessary luxury, it has become something I understand as the normal way society works. At the same time, when I leave my mess for these "helpers," I can't help but feel the presence of a socioeconomically stratified society, certainly remainders of the caste system, and I hate the fact that to rebel against it will only insult those whose lives literally depend on my participation. What is the difference between laziness and convenience?

Holi

Ambushed by friendly strangers smearing magenta, yellow, and blue powder over the skin of my face. They gently wipe my forehead with red, my chin with aquamarine.

"Happy Holi!"

The unrecognizably colorful villagers grace my cheeks with violet and green. I am a canvas continuously repainted by joyous celebrators. Everyone is art and an artist. Boys politely approach with bags of colors, their eyes asking if I will participate in the play, but having already decided they will follow through with their intention of adding to this human palette. In return I spread my sea blue on their noses, complimenting their mess of red and orange. They sprinkle powder on my head, which quickly becomes the release of an entire handful of Holi dye into my hair.

"May I snatch a photo?"

Everyone wants to color the Americans. I smile for their cameras as a relatively aggressive bloak wipes color across my mouth, the pink coating my teeth, the grit only slightly unpleasant to taste. I inhale the floury sand as we toss handfuls into the air in elation, the magic raining back down on our bodies as we dance. Spreading the joy of colors is entirely irresistable. Children, adults, and cows are gorgeous fauvist masterpieces, unique creations of public art, walking easels. Our faces grin as we collect the prints of hundreds of playful hands, our cheeks aching more from smiling than from the repeated assaults, the paint unable to mask our delight.