kolkata india stories-- part I

as i sit down to write instead of some carefully selected and thoughtfully placed words that will grab you and pull you into the beauty, hardship and wonder that is Kolkata spring to mind a few dozen faces and all the conversations and feelings that are now inseparably linked with them.

i think of the beautiful street kids that we got to know. how do I tell you about their pleading eyes and occasional bright smiles at an unexpected kindness? if i was astute enough a writer would you feel what i felt as i saw them everyday pounding the pavement selling gum? could i make them as precious and as tiring in your imagination as they were? would you feel the same heartache as i when i ate a fancy meal in heavy air-conditioning as little subnumb bored holes into the back of my head through the window and occasionally raised her hand to her mouth in the seemingly universal hunger sign? can i speak of my delight and hopelessness as we took a moment to color in the street before the children remembered they were beggars and must ask us for things and not play. can i speak of the tiny shards of my heart that i wasn't sure would ever go together again as i saw the faces of the girls in the face of a child prostitute in an advocacy video?

...more days have passed and still this post is left unpublished and unfinished as i am uncertain that i can share but how about i tell some stories?

//paluma//

the plastic mat squeaked under me as i sat on the small cot surrounded by the dozens of women at kalighat-- mother t's home for the destitute and dying. paluma looks up at me and i smile uncertainly. what do i do now? i wondered. i took her hand and smiled again. she gave a weary smile in return. we sat for a few minutes silently lookig around. we had already figured out that i didn't speak bengali and she didn't speak english. i looked down at her hand-- it was skinnier than mine and the veins were deep purple and stood out clearly even against her dark skin tone. she was gazing at a commotion down a little ways at another cot. why was it so hard to just sit and not be doing something? i asked myself. i felt my heart squeeze looking around at all the women-- i wasn't certain how to process the amount of pain in one place. its only day three. i reminded myself. i noticed a bird trilling in the cage above. it sounded peaceful. as i started to sing, paluma turned to me. i looked down feeling overwhelmed. i kept singing. your love is deep, your love is high, your love is long, your love is wide. i felt that i was going to cry but decided to look up anyway. paluma's dark eyes were incredibuly deep and kind. she saw my emotion i think because she squezzed my hand lightly and we started to rock back and forth together slightly. her expression held appresiation and a great deal of warmth. i felt she was comforting me. this was the first time it felt reciplical. like we were both giving something to one another.

//we played ball//

we went to go see him in the room that has been his home for a few years. he lives with his he was laying down even though it was not a typcal time for a nap and he was not more than six-- i couldn't imagine most of the little boys i know laying around in bed inactive. but it didn't shock me as i had been warned. he lives with a woman who rents room in their brothel. she is crazy and has more charity and love than many i have met who have their 'sanity.' rena took him in after his mom ran off presumably to another red-light area in the city. she keeps him and her two teenage daughters in their one bedroom apt hoping for their safety behind closed doors across from the bed she rents i think. he saw his occasional playmates enter and lit up in excitement rushing toward the lovely keen as she entered the room. noticing me looked a little cautious-- uncertain why i had come along with his grown-up american friends. b began chatting with rena and i sat watching. soon keen brought him out and i pulled out coloring books and crayons from my mary poppins like bag off goodies. he scribbled a few purple lines on each page and seemed mostly content but not enthralled. i wanted him to be enthralled. i wanted my half hour of existence with him to be filled to the brim. so out came the soft neon balls. we began hurling them at eachother on the small bed. i would hide my face and feign intense dismay as he launched them at me and then i would return the blows with equal vigor. we continued like that for a long time. every blow resulting in more and more giggles and energy. i would hide them under my bum and then eyes wide begin looking around as if to say 'where in the world have they gone?' to which he would fall on the thin blanket in fits before i took them out to begin another attack. he kept saying one phrase and i soon began to wonder what it was-- i asked keen who was sitting on the bed very neat us watching the antics. she said, "he keeps saying 'girl you are cracking me up.' " i was immensely pleased at having pleased him. when we where both tired keen pulled out her small ipod and gave him the headphones. he began to dance and soon offered me one of the earbuds. i rocked out to 'rockin' robin' amid his obvious delight. it wasn't everyday he got to see a young white woman sit on a bed and do bad arm dances to a golden oldie. at least i don't think it happened everyday. after we were served chai and crackers it was nearing our time to go. however rena and b seemed deep in conversation. i asked keen what was up. "rena brought up her desire for him to go to another place. a safe school or home. a place he could learn and know other kids. we have prayed about this so much ever since we have known them and i have a friend that has a wonderful school for orphans south of here. b is telling her about that school now. this is kind of amazing." those few sentences gave me hope for him. keen continued to translate and said that although rena was open she had heard that his mother was back in the area and was afraid that she would be mad if rena gave him away. it was rumored that this woman sold her children. i looked at him-- his dark eyes, thick dark hair and skinny little boy body with ribs clear under his golden skin-- his frame was even smaller looking in his baggy slightly dirty shorts. i tried not think of what would happen if he got sold. as we began to get ready to leave he had to get ready to lay back down. so he went into their bedroom apt, quickly peed on the cement floor and rinsed his hands before climbing into bed. as we walked down the hall i heard his voice shouting his good-byes and i wondered if i would ever see him again.

there are so many more but these i must at last place out there and then perhaps more will come... when you write a novel to explain one hour incidents it is necessary to break up the telling...

hope you are learning as i am.