This week has been more of the same going into the colonies to rally and escort the sex workers to the testing and counseling clinic. One of the most powerful experiences about work so far is the incredible feeling of emerging out the slum area amongst a colorfully dressed diverse gang of women. Some have been as young as 14, some old enough to see the years of manual labor in their leathery hands. Some are happy and playful, others quiet and intense. Yet the differences melt away as they walk through the door of the clinic. They were among the group that didn’t run away in fear or misconception and with that, they support each other.
As each day grows hotter and hotter, the air on the bus becomes thicker and more laden with body odor. The stop between the colonies and the office is a busy market lined with women squatting in front of vibrant displays of bangles, sugarcane juice stands, and barber ‘shops,’ small structures resting on cement blocks with one chair, a mirror, and a bucket of soapy razors. It is also the location of the main sabzi (vegetable market). Kanchan-ji and I usually stop there on the way home as she peruses the carts for the best priced tomatoes, onions, and potatoes. I love watching her haggle with the men seated among their baskets of fruits, veggies, and spices; she is utterly relentless as she refuses to be given even one bruised banana. She is also endlessly entertained by the ridiculous prices the vendors offer me for their produce, ‘ye angur? Tin soh rupaya!’ (‘These grapes? 300 rupees!’). She cracks up every time.
We pass also carts filled with overflowing baskets of flower garlands and the small boys that weave them seated atop them. The speed and precision with which they stab, string, and tie, stab, string, and tie the bright pink, orange, and yellow flowers make me wonder how many of their, maybe, 11 gap-toothed years had been spent sitting in the rickety contraption. I remember looking at pictures of the heaps of color in the stack of India travel guides I accumulated at home and thinking there was no way that they could possibly be that brilliant in real life. Well, they are.
Satisfied with the little plastic bags of her soon-to-be-dinner, Kanchan bought us ice cream from a street vendor to quickly salvage our dwindling blood sugar. As I watched him plunge the cube of frozen cream into a bucket of sure-to-be- bacteria filled water, my thoughts went right to the stash of Pepto tablets I keep on me at all times. The freezing sweetness immediately trumped the thoughts of millions of amoebas having a heyday in my intestines. Despite snacking on questionable ‘fried kuch-kuch’ (literally meaning ‘fried something-something’) accepting proud displays of chai in dripping wet cups from the women in the colonies (just cleaned!..yeah, with the tap water), and succumbing to an unbeatable craving to eat a fresh apple from a street vendor, I’ve been home free. All hail the power of probiotics!
Due to the holiday ‘Ram Navmi’ on Tuesday, we had a half-day at the office and I was invited to spend the morning at one of the ORW’s houses to eat the traditional morning meal. I arrived at her house and found her in the kitchen wearing the most beautiful yellow sari. On the counter next to her was a pile of steaming hot puri (thick fried roti) that she had just taken out of the pot of sizzling oil on the stove. She sat me down on bed in the main room and served me chai, puri, and khir (a dangerously sweet rice pudding with coconut, milk, and sugar). It was probably the most delicious thing I’ve had so far. Four pieces of puri and a second bowl of khir later, I felt like I was about to explode. Lessoned to be learned? Eat slowly or it just keeps coming and it is impossible to decline. Ok, but this is the laaaast one!...not.
After playing with the neighborhood kids, visiting each member of their extended family’s house, and almost being forced onto a horse much to the enjoyment of the old men sitting in a nearby doorway, it was time to head back to the office. I started to climb onto the back of her two-wheeler when she motioned (she doesn’t speak English) for me to sit sidesaddle behind her. Yikes. There we were zooming off over sand and potholes as we joined the dusty morning commute into the desert. I gripped the one handle on the back so tightly with my one hand that my knuckles turned white, but after being passed by a moped loaded with a family of four and a basket of metal pots, I figured I could let up a little and enjoy my ‘spacious’ ride.
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