An Ode to India

As our time here in India begins to wind down, I feel like I need to share a few moments that have impacted my life in one way or another. I don’t know the names of these women and children, nor do I know their life stories. But I feel like these brief encounters with them, either up close or from a distance, collided our worlds together in unexpected ways. Each paragraph holds a special story and exposes an intimate perspective into their world. I hope you enjoy these short snippets and glimpses into this crazy place called India.

A young woman walks down an uneven brick road where old trees hang over the walkway and provide shade from the intense heat. Tall, thin, strong. A bright orange sari wraps tightly around her, but allows enough freedom to move about. However, she can’t escape the groping reality of the delicately woven fabric. Anklets jingle with each step she takes towards me. I can see she holds onto her necklace with her right hand while her left hand slowly tightens in anxiety. Our eyes cautiously align and refuse to escape. For the first time, she is overwhelmed by love. The depth behind those avenues of sight keeps her lips tight; the depth of pain, the depth of despair, the depth that rejects others from walking down her broken streets. 

You’re about three years old as you approach it. Your ragged clothes are no reflection of the depth your familial goddess supposedly holds. You cautiously walk up, barefooted, hands filled with broken flowers and look to the left as your mother urges you into action. You toss your handful to the goddess, back away slowly, then turn on your heels and run back into the arms of your satisfied mother. Little do you know the path your little feet are walking down. Little do you know that your offering tightened the chains on your soul. Oh, will you ever know the truth? Will you ever know what it means to be free?

Yes, a small glimpse of ferocity runs across your face, but only because you have to fight for your life. Your home rests on the middle train platform between two sets of benches. Naturally, you prefer the ground. You stand to fluff the old rice sack that holds the plastic gold from the days’ work. There’s no way you wouldn’t use it as your pillow. You loosen your sari in order to adjust the seemingly never-ending tattered fabric, torn and stained from years of life. You expose yourself to bystanders, free from worry and judgment. You’ve accepted the reality of your invisibility within society. You lie down on your sack in a suggestive pose, inviting whoever desires you for just a moment.

She’s about four feet tall and no younger than eighty years old. Her face wears the lines of laughter, tears, joy, and warmth. Decades of stories lie deep within her dark skin. She sits hunched over on the ground and leans against the narrow wall of the gate that welcomes those to the house. With crossed legs extended, she grips a tattered book with one hand as she runs the other across the foreign characters. She enthusiastically reads through her light pink framed glasses from the 80s. All distractions are shut out as she escapes into the world on the pages. She is the epitome of the new woman, regardless of her age. She is beautiful.

As we approach the busy interstate, there is a large patch of dirt that shows no signs of life except the one tiny body squatting down. She wears a torn, sleeveless dress, faded in color and covered in dust. Her legs and arms are not much larger than her frail bones. She holds a miniature chai cup, most likely found on the ground nearby, and scoops dirt into her cup with a tiny plastic spoon. Maybe she’s going to be a princess building a castle made of sand. Maybe she’s going to be royalty having tea with the famous bears and dolls of the country. Maybe she will one day believe that she is a princess and that she is a daughter of Royalty, who would die to have tea with her.