Here you can see pictures of where we live. Our living room, mosquito netted bed, kitchen, view out of the window, and our bathroom. In India they do not have a separate tub to shower in, which makes it difficult not to track water all over the bathroom and house. And what follows is my typical walk to the train everyday.
India. A place where an overabundance of every stimulation surrounds you. Where cheap plastic shiny crap is loved. Where the clothes designs have six patterns. Where women's hair is waist long and like black silk. Where when you earn a smile from a native, it starts in their hearts and ends through their eyes. Where men's waists are sized 12 inches and their excess beltage wraps around their backs. Where the guest is god. Tea is served at least 3 times per day. Someone makes it for you, brings it to you, and cleans your cup.
I put on my shoes by the door and slide the latch open. I am grateful some punk kid hasn't locked me in again. I step out on to the white tile landing and look out of the cage enclosed staircase window as I go down the stairs. The air is unusually less humid and smoggy in the early morning hours. I pass the flat with the incense going, devotional flower chains, and ghee oil lamps burning and smile at their intention. I pass my friends door with her assualitive Jesus picture, still sleeping...Lucky. I walk out through the elevator gate, while I look at the black paint hand print on the next building/abandoned house not three feet away. I smile at it. The ally has a chicken drinking from a cement dish with a cat lurking nearby waiting for his turn. A dog runs away from me, it's tail between his legs. "It's ok baby." I say. Down to the street that is already woken up. Rickshaws almost flatten me to the poop encrusted brick road, as women with six year old little boys in oliver twist overalls, white sloppy socks, and black shoes hurry by. The vegetable vendors are setting up, the cows are in the middle of the road as usual munching on imported grass. A rickshaw puffs out diesel smoke right by my face. The man driving it dressed in a kacki cotton suit turns around to stare at me as he drives past. The morning pooja is going on with Hindi music blasting, bells ringing, and incense burning. I see the red retro, puke green inside 220 bus nearing. "Why spend the 4 rupees when you can walk?" I am on my way. There is a scraggly puppy with patchy hair that waggles up. I pass my favorite bum. He is sitting on someones wall where he sleeps. There is a water bottle there partly filled i know with cheap mumbai alcohol. His wool blanket is draped over his head and he stares out looking so deep and philosophical it is beautiful. "one day I will bring him food and eat it with him, " I think. I pas the diamond stores, so many, the banks, and the saree shops. There is a deep fry samosa shop where I see the newly made samosas arranged on a stainless steel silver plate on the floor. "So fresh, that's the best place to get em." I pass the crowded ghetto sidewalk tea stall. Made from stolen sidewalk bricks in the shape of puzzle pieces and one piece of wood laying across. The owner shuffles the men out of my way. I smile at him. The park across the street is round and completely fenced in with only one entrance. It is only open in the morning and the evenings. There's a school with motivational sayings written on a chalk board that change daily. I pass the strange church made completely of bells. Each one purchased with the wish for a child or some other goal. Pantless beggar children get washed by their moms as their too thin fathers slumber on the sidewalk covered in a blanket. I fight my way through the crowd and rickshaws dodging to miss a stray mans hand, covering my purse to avoid its opening. "I'll make the 8:28 again." I go running up the stairs to the platform que for the women's bogie.
India. A place where an overabundance of every stimulation surrounds you. Where cheap plastic shiny crap is loved. Where the clothes designs have six patterns. Where women's hair is waist long and like black silk. Where when you earn a smile from a native, it starts in their hearts and ends through their eyes. Where men's waists are sized 12 inches and their excess beltage wraps around their backs. Where the guest is god. Tea is served at least 3 times per day. Someone makes it for you, brings it to you, and cleans your cup.
I put on my shoes by the door and slide the latch open. I am grateful some punk kid hasn't locked me in again. I step out on to the white tile landing and look out of the cage enclosed staircase window as I go down the stairs. The air is unusually less humid and smoggy in the early morning hours. I pass the flat with the incense going, devotional flower chains, and ghee oil lamps burning and smile at their intention. I pass my friends door with her assualitive Jesus picture, still sleeping...Lucky. I walk out through the elevator gate, while I look at the black paint hand print on the next building/abandoned house not three feet away. I smile at it. The ally has a chicken drinking from a cement dish with a cat lurking nearby waiting for his turn. A dog runs away from me, it's tail between his legs. "It's ok baby." I say. Down to the street that is already woken up. Rickshaws almost flatten me to the poop encrusted brick road, as women with six year old little boys in oliver twist overalls, white sloppy socks, and black shoes hurry by. The vegetable vendors are setting up, the cows are in the middle of the road as usual munching on imported grass. A rickshaw puffs out diesel smoke right by my face. The man driving it dressed in a kacki cotton suit turns around to stare at me as he drives past. The morning pooja is going on with Hindi music blasting, bells ringing, and incense burning. I see the red retro, puke green inside 220 bus nearing. "Why spend the 4 rupees when you can walk?" I am on my way. There is a scraggly puppy with patchy hair that waggles up. I pass my favorite bum. He is sitting on someones wall where he sleeps. There is a water bottle there partly filled i know with cheap mumbai alcohol. His wool blanket is draped over his head and he stares out looking so deep and philosophical it is beautiful. "one day I will bring him food and eat it with him, " I think. I pas the diamond stores, so many, the banks, and the saree shops. There is a deep fry samosa shop where I see the newly made samosas arranged on a stainless steel silver plate on the floor. "So fresh, that's the best place to get em." I pass the crowded ghetto sidewalk tea stall. Made from stolen sidewalk bricks in the shape of puzzle pieces and one piece of wood laying across. The owner shuffles the men out of my way. I smile at him. The park across the street is round and completely fenced in with only one entrance. It is only open in the morning and the evenings. There's a school with motivational sayings written on a chalk board that change daily. I pass the strange church made completely of bells. Each one purchased with the wish for a child or some other goal. Pantless beggar children get washed by their moms as their too thin fathers slumber on the sidewalk covered in a blanket. I fight my way through the crowd and rickshaws dodging to miss a stray mans hand, covering my purse to avoid its opening. "I'll make the 8:28 again." I go running up the stairs to the platform que for the women's bogie.
2 comments:
what raw beauty in your writing. and how it curves my lips to read of how much you are smiling. you guys ROCK.
this writing twere beautiful.
-solon
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