Caste

As we walk down the street, early morning, we pass the poor whose home
is merely a tarp and a square of concrete. It is nothing new of
course, I see these slum folks along practically every street. My host
mom, an Anglo-Indian, comments, "These people. Look how they live!
Look--those children!!" she says with disgust. "They sleep under those
tarps, they even make babies under there!" She doesn't seem to
understand when I explain these are the poor people we help, this is
why I came to India, this is what I want to do with my life. She is
silent. As if, you know, who cares about these people? They're the
urban barbarians. This Christian woman with so much seeming compassion
really has none for anyone but her own kind. "You won't find my people
among these. I am mortified at her lack of empathy. But then again,
can I blame her? In a society where literally millions dwell on the
streets like these ones. Can she realistically expand her biologically
estimated 100 member capacity of humans that she knows as her own kind
to accommodate all of them? With such visible destitution I imagine
you become desensitized after a lifetime, or less, or if you even had
been sensitive to it in the first place. But what I can't condone, is
the dehumanizing treatment given to this caste of people. By these
people I mean the water-fetchers, rickshaw-drivers, chai wallahs, shoe
shiners. I see it when the water man comes just 20 minutes too early
for Dola, she screams as if he has made the most horrific unforgivable
mistake. He forgets to come the second time in the day, she scolds him
for his absentmindedness. Today on our walk back, her feet are
hurting, she wants to take a rickshaw. I haven't been able to allow
myself to ride the human horse until now, since I have no other
choice, with no knowledge of the area. We board the contraption, a
seat high up above 2 gigantic wooden wheels. The axel is attached to
the handles pushed by the driver, who holds them firmly in his thin
arms. His thin back is barely clothed by the white shirt which is
still stained pink from dye from Holi, a festival from over a month
ago. I imagine a passenger throwing colors on him in entertainment
while he carried them helplessly with no opportunity for retribution.
The driver darts across traffic, being nearly clipped by a bus and
then a tram twice as he escorts us to our home. As I sit upon the
throne looking out over the street from what feels like a majestic
view, even I begin to feel entitled simply due to my height and not to
mention the strange situation of being towed by another human being. I
become irritated at every halt, impatient at his slow speed, annoyed
at his impoliteness. My ride above Kolkata's traffic also makes me
feel, (unjustifiably), "above" them as well. As I descend, I am
disgusted at my own pleasure at the luxury ride, and moreso at my
ungrateful and selfish thoughts. I ashamedly pay him the 10 Rs. I
would have given him 100 for this experience. I want to thank him for
his work, for saving my legs the walk, for directing us safely through
traffic. But hesitate, as I realize that such kindness is not
culturally appropriate. It is not proper to sympathize with the lower
people, best to leave them to their work and you to yours. Best not to
get too close to them. Best not to be too polite or they'll get lazy.
Best not to over pay them or you'll ruin the market and spoil them.
What sordid disgusting people, can't even do their job right. We
coldly depart with no words to the rickshaw driver; only a silent
exchange of cash reduces our entire interaction to the commerce that
dominates all life in India. I return to my comfy bed, in my home
where water, bread, and cooking gas are brought to me. Where someone
cleans up after me, and sometimes even cooks for me. And I wonder,
Why?
But perhaps she will ask, why not?

Momita

I walk by the family every morning. They fascinate me. They live on the sidewalk along the road to Tala Park. It is an uncountable family, with brothers, sisters, and children scattered across the block. I watch with embarrassment as they do their laundry, their children poop on the sidewalk, a mother nurses her baby, the older man naps, the aunty cooks breakfast. They do not have the luxury of privacy. Their every action on public display. Do I make eye contact? I avoid walking through their living room, bathroom, and bedroom as I step into the street. Their habitation has completely overtaken the footpath. Their saris and clothes strung along bamboo poles, hanging in the sun to dry as they create a superficial barrier between the inhabitants and
street traffic. They smile as I pass, calling out one day, "Photo?" I am overjoyed at the opportunity to document this scene, having felt any uninvited photography would be voyeuristic, invasive, and insulting. I snap the tarpaulin shading a pile of blankets. The mothers pose with their children, proudly. A lady sweeps and grins for the camera. So at peace they are with so little. I promise to return with their printed photos.

...
I greet the family, huddled by one of the women, who I quickly  understand to have recently had a baby. Yesterday, I find out with  minimal Bengali. I give them their portraits which they happily  accept, and they continue explaining that Momita is very sick and she  has not been eating. I don't know much Bengali to ask medical questions, but I can see with my eyes the absolute discomfort of this poor new mother. I have another moment where I wish sincerely that I am a doctor already. Luckily the clinic is only a rickshaw ride away
and we hail a bicycle, our ambulance escort to Tala Park, a Calcutta Rescue clinic made just for street people like Momita who cannot access health care. Momita cannot walk on her own. I have her wait with her family outside. I consult the clinic manager as it is an emergency. I explain her weakness, her recent delivery on the
streetside, the need to see one of the doctors. "You can't bring a patient like this here! We have no facilities for examining her, she must go to the hospital! What if she has some complications? What if she gave birth in unsterile conditions? We would be in such trouble! What if she hasn't birthed the placenta? You can't just take a patient off the street, these scavenger patients, its too dangerous!"

I wonder, what is the point of Calcutta Rescue then? They say they will see her only after she is seen at the hospital. Then they can give her free medications. I insist that we bring her to the hospital. They get her a jeep escort there, along with a staff member. I want to go but I am not allowed. And I have already caused too much commotion. Going against protocols, messing up their sterile and uncaring system. What should these patients do then, if not seek help at our clinics? Is there no such thing as emergency medicine? It is the same
bureaucracy, the same indifference, impatience, and lack of human compassion that alienate and as a result sacrifice the lives of these street people that even a street medicine organization designed to accommodate these very patients does not know how to deal with and fails to treat with the respect and obligation to care upon which the medical field prides itself.
...
I visit Momita. She is luckily alive. But she was turned away at the hospital because she hadn't brought some papers. They sent her back to the footpath. She did not attend the clinic. She did not receive any medical advice. She was never even examined by a physician. I urge her to visit the clinic again. But who would visit such a place after being treated like that?

Does no one in the world care? It is just the way it is here. Your country can't be compared with India.

Insurmountable problems,
Created only by the laziness and selfishness
Of human beings themselves.
There are standards of living.
There are universal human rights
That may be broken for many,
For everyone.
But that does not make it right.
That does not excuse
The sin.

Halfway home

Today marks the halfway point of my stay in India. 3 months. I've survived is all I can really say for myself. I feel like these 3 months could have been 10 years. Sometimes people say, "Time went by so fast!" No, time is not going by fast here, it's taking its torturous time. It is not that I am tired of being here, I'm not really homesick, and there's so much more to do here. But just that every minute here is so much fuller. Like it is ridiculously compressed so that more stimuli, more motions, more assaults, are packed into each second that ticks by. I feel like I have aged since I've been here, having been completely disillusioned by the brokenness of humanity, and finding myself more distrustful, suspicious, and certainly, more aware. I don't know right now if this is a good or bad thing, but I suppose as long as it doesn't propel me into a downward spiral of depression during my remaining 3 months, I will be happy for it. It is like every worst nightmare actually is the reality of this place. It is quite disturbing, awakening, yet only in the sense that you realize the nightmare is not a dream; it is, terrifyingly, real life. I have seen things I never would have expected, things I never want to see again, met people who have rocked my soul either with their kindness or their sins. Selfishly, I am glad I have seen these things, for my own education, for learning lessons about the reality of the world, but for the sake of the human race, I am utterly disgusted, horrified, and ultimately, left with an ache of helplessness. At the same time, I will admit my time has not been a passive absorption of my surroundings, though I have definitely wasted a lot of time finding my way around. To my emotional distress, the work often feels futile and is dishearteningly frustrating at times. I also can't say I have completed anything truly meaningful yet, and my halfway point is merely an anticlimactic reminder of the effort it takes to make real change.

Fighting against the human condition

How do you conduct a feeding program when the names of the malnourished chihldren you are trying to feed change every time you go and the staff cannot even identify the orphans themselves?
What do you do when the children who have Vitamin A deficiencies have multiple identities and you risk over-medicating the children?
What do you do when there is not even a curriculum or set of books at this so-called school?
What do you do when the children's lives are at risk for the incompetency of these so-called guardians, but their constant lying and evasive answers make it impossible to find out the truth?
The Bess Crawford orphanage is the epitome of poverty directly damaging health.
The picture.
69 orphans. Supposedly.
But these may vary week to week and minute to minute. Their names change each time.
Children have 2 different names they tell me.
170 children join to eat the food.
I meet the "orphans' " mothers.
Children rub their tummies in pain.
NO one there understands nutrition nor will even listen, while they still give inadequate meals to the children.
Meals of rice and potatoes, if anything.
No vegetables, no protein.
We try to bring meals.
Don't bring them food! They say. Their tummies are too full from lunch! They'll all vomit at night!
Vitamin A and B deficiencies, tiny arms, and diarrhea.
One girl died of a stomach problem.
Who are these kids even?
Abosolute chaos.
Flies everywhere.
No toilet, water, drainage, sleeping mats.
No perception of the dangers of malnutrition, the possibility of blindness, developmental damage, or death.
I bring social workers to investigate.
This is a waste of time, why bother? they say.
There are millions of starving children, they say.
Plenty of others worth helping.
Besides.
You are just a volunteer trying to make impossible change.
You have no authority.
You will fail.
Thank you for your concern.
We will find another way to bring justice to this place.
I thought you people might feel some moral obligation to help, as social workers, as Christians,
As human beings.
But what can I expect in the most inhumane place I have ever been?

Or is this the true human condition?

Friendship

What is friendship?
But a game of wants
An exchange of benefits
One manipulates another
Gain!
Me!!
I'll use you for this
Yes
Let's see how I can gain your trust
So that you unknowingly give me what I need?
How might I give the least
and get the most from this
Deal?
What do you have for me,
Money?
Visa?
Sex?
Business?
I want.
I want.
So I will caress you sweetly.
You can trust me.
You are the most important person in the world.

You have nothing for me?
Who are you?

Nobody.

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.