A Walk.

A waft of burning plastic awakens my sense of smell, in turn, my sense of sight. Eyes open to a new day in India and I remember – every day is new. Maybe today, I will love it here.

The first step outside is not into a pile of shit, though I will watch closely every step that I take. Thirteen pairs of rickshaw-driving eyes leap to life at the sight of me – perhaps today’s first opportunity for a ‘foreigner’ fare. Despite the crumbling sidewalk and chaos that awaits me, I opt for a walk. Thirteen ‘no thank yous’ later, I am on my way. I wonder if number thirteen was feeling especially lucky this morning – if he truly believed I’d choose his ride after turning down all the others. Five meters past the end of this three-wheeled, black and yellow, soot-stained line, I hear the familiar sound of a two-stroke engine slowly approach. Rickshaw? No. No thank you this time.

The dust has nearly settled from the morning sweep. Only one brightly wrapped woman lingers, slowly and deliberately brushing the remnants of yesterday’s traffic from her stoop. It will sit in a tidy, dirty pile off to the side until a bus blares by or any animal comes rummaging for a morning snack. For now, she has cleared a small space and continues L-bent, spreading an intricate pattern of talc. It will linger, welcoming visitors much longer than the dirty pile remains tidy.

The air is suddenly thick and the back of my throat knows before my eyes do that the source of my awakening this morning is only moments away. A neighbor has ignited her tidy, dirty pile of metallic cellophane, plastic bottles and street soil. Eyes burning, scarf held securely over nose and mouth, I step blindly through the dense smoke. Please, let my foot land on solid ground and not in a steaming pile. I can barely make out the silhouette of bovine hips a few meters ahead. My foot is safe, but the tail is raised and as the air clears I feel the gentle spatter of cow urine on my ankle.

I step quickly aside – wary of sidewalk crumbles underfoot – around a corner and into the street. My sense of time and space is instantly overwhelmed by the unyielding blare of a horn. Though the worst thing I can do is hesitate, I freeze for a moment. Countless obstructions come sharply into focus. I know, after two months here, to say farewell to that focus sooner than it arrives. It is best to just keep moving, shifting, drifting. Constantly and carefully, one foot in front of the next.

Right hip dodges fruit cart. Left shoulder escapes sideview mirror. Left foot narrowly misses a freshly hocked loogie. Left leg is less fortunate, roughly grazed by a bike pedal. Right foot high steps over a pile of defeated shoes. Left hip shirks an ox cart. Right hand draws up just in time to avoid contact with the outstretched hand of a beggar – wait, is that hand attached to an arm – or directly to a shoulder? Barely time to notice that feet protrude directly from hips. I just passed a torso with ten fingers and ten toes.

My walk continues. I don’t need sunglasses, thank you. Sugarcane juice? No thanks. Come look, my shop. Not now. Earrings? Necklace? Drum? Map? Postcard? You don’t have to buy, just look. No thank you. Looking is free. Nothing is free. Just look. Nope. I’m walking and fear the slightest pause.

Left foot sidesteps unidentified puddle. Left shoulder bangs an elbow slung casually across the back of gentlemen friends. Right shoulder skirts the basket on a brightly wrapped woman’s head. Right hip eludes child’s foot – a child dangles by one arm over this woman’s shoulder. As one hand balances the basket, the other carries the wrist of her flailing toddler.

An abrupt pain courses through my right breast. My head turns, catches a uniformed boy – maybe ten – trotting away, looking back, smirking. Through the onset of disbelief, my body follows my head and I am walking swiftly and angrily after him. He glances again and is surprised to see me following. Paces quicken. Suddenly, I stop. What am I going to do to this kid? He catches up with his friend and before I turn away, I see them giggle maliciously. A ten year old boy just slapped my breast for fun. I was publicly molested, and except feeling helpless and violated, there is nothing I can do about it. No one else seems to have noticed. (Did I mention this was a fun/ny thing for a 10 year old?!?)

As I shake my head and begin to walk, the sputtering behind me slows. Rickshaw? No!

I’ve never trusted rickshaw drivers. Now, I don’t trust children. I am slowly and painfully learning to distrust everyone I encounter in this country. As I am much more of an idealist than a cynicist, this is very difficult for me. My light skin is a permanent blemish – a hindrance to any sort of fair negotiation or honest dialogue. Light skin = foreigner = money.

Equals survival. In this country of over one billion people – of which almost 400 million survive on the equivalent of roughly $1.25 a day – the psychology of living is contrary to my own. Can I spare the extra 50 rupees (Rs 50 ~ $1) I’m charged to travel the same distance (as a local) in a rickshaw? Why shouldn’t I pay Rs 250 to see this temple while an Indian pays Rs 10? Who’s more likely to buy a necklace – someone who earns Rs 100 a day or someone who earns $100 a day? Should I bargain down to Rs 100 for this shawl so you can by your family dinner – or pay the Rs 500 you ask of me so you can feed your family for a week?

I don’t have to be here. I chose to be here. Why? To peak my curiosity? To stoke my sense of adventure? To create an opportunity for learning? To alter my perspective? To experience a different psychology of living? If I made the willing decision to come here and had every intention of remaining open-minded and open-hearted, why do I feel so damn frustrated? What – exactly – is all this about?

The pungency of stale urine assaults my olfactory nerves like the Allied forces on the beaches of Normandy. I have just stepped over another unidentifiable puddle into an open air, tile corridor. Looking up without pausing, I notice four men facing the wall to my left, legs shoulder width apart. Before my twinge of embarrassment escalates, I have passed through and stepped out of this public urinal. Just another drop in this immense bucket – but I’ve had enough for today.

One more corner to turn before the refuge of my Rs 400/night room. Done walking, I’ll read and write and ruminate there for the afternoon – and maybe I’ll love India tomorrow.