We went out this evening. A big group of us. Local students, a few of my American friends...
We sat on a roof top far off the street, looking over the water and the gate of India, enjoying the breeze and laughing together over strange stories about our class and gin and tonics. We sat for hours sharing stories about India and me about Latin America and Mexico...
And then we piled into a cab to go to a night club where women appeared in designer shoes and diamond necklaces.
And a little girl in an oversized dress and wide eyes like my own when I was her age crept through the sea of long, exposed high heeled legs and trousers. Her hands cupped to her mouth. She looked overwhelmed and sad. Everyone ignored her except me. We made eye contact and she looked close to tears. I couldnt tear my eyes away until someone stepped on me and I turned away.
She pulled on the scarf I had draped over my shoulders (to make my outfit more conservative and cover me from wrists to ankles). Two quick tugs, and I looked down to her small hand, extended away from her face and towards me. Eyes wide and expecting. Something, anything, really.
I saw her amid the sea of Indian men and women in their finery, and she stood there between their legs. Looking for anyone who would acknowledge her and see her as a person rather than an invisible being.
My iron mask almost cracked. I almost gave in and gave her whatever I had on me. I felt it cracking. I stared back down at her and saw an almost exact copy of my face when I was her age. Wide eyed. Short, jaw length hair. Curiosity and fire and that treacherous feeling of hope when there isnt anything else to hold onto.
My friend grabbed my wrist and dragged me off, breaking the spell. But I left her there, in a sea of legs and wishes, alone.
My own twisting blade of guilt, from those moments where the mask I wear every day to feel nothing when I go out in the street and do what I need to do here, is creaking. Quietly but twisting.
It just kept twisting while we walked past the rows of sleeping bodies, some under blankets, some beside their loved ones, and others curled into fetal positions on the sidewalk, alone, leaning against a fence.
The street was finally quiet. There was peace in Colaba. No one stared at me, they just rested. Everyone was going home and it was all clearing out.. one foot step at a time.
How can all of this exist?
We sat on a roof top far off the street, looking over the water and the gate of India, enjoying the breeze and laughing together over strange stories about our class and gin and tonics. We sat for hours sharing stories about India and me about Latin America and Mexico...
And then we piled into a cab to go to a night club where women appeared in designer shoes and diamond necklaces.
And a little girl in an oversized dress and wide eyes like my own when I was her age crept through the sea of long, exposed high heeled legs and trousers. Her hands cupped to her mouth. She looked overwhelmed and sad. Everyone ignored her except me. We made eye contact and she looked close to tears. I couldnt tear my eyes away until someone stepped on me and I turned away.
She pulled on the scarf I had draped over my shoulders (to make my outfit more conservative and cover me from wrists to ankles). Two quick tugs, and I looked down to her small hand, extended away from her face and towards me. Eyes wide and expecting. Something, anything, really.
I saw her amid the sea of Indian men and women in their finery, and she stood there between their legs. Looking for anyone who would acknowledge her and see her as a person rather than an invisible being.
My iron mask almost cracked. I almost gave in and gave her whatever I had on me. I felt it cracking. I stared back down at her and saw an almost exact copy of my face when I was her age. Wide eyed. Short, jaw length hair. Curiosity and fire and that treacherous feeling of hope when there isnt anything else to hold onto.
My friend grabbed my wrist and dragged me off, breaking the spell. But I left her there, in a sea of legs and wishes, alone.
My own twisting blade of guilt, from those moments where the mask I wear every day to feel nothing when I go out in the street and do what I need to do here, is creaking. Quietly but twisting.
It just kept twisting while we walked past the rows of sleeping bodies, some under blankets, some beside their loved ones, and others curled into fetal positions on the sidewalk, alone, leaning against a fence.
The street was finally quiet. There was peace in Colaba. No one stared at me, they just rested. Everyone was going home and it was all clearing out.. one foot step at a time.
How can all of this exist?
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