Sometimes I'm quietly reading, with the windows rolled up and the A/C on full blast. I'm in my cocoon of oblivion and not paying any attention to the outside world. I've dropped off the kids at school and I'm catching a moment of calm ... most mornings drinking my coffee in a "take away cup" and munching on a Biscotti.
Other times I'm poised and ready with my camera, hoping to be lucky enough to capture moments that I want to share with you. Some moments I'm completely lost in my thoughts - with my struggle to be a decent human being and the requirement to keep a staff in check. Lost in the thoughts of hoping to accomplish something over the next couple of hours and the alternative of maybe seeking out a yoga house to again practice what I love.
Then they knock.
Most times it surprises the living daylights out of me. Similar to when you happen across a snake sunning itself in the heat of the day, or a mouse running across your kitchen floor. I don't jump out of fear, but simply because I've been jolted from the world I was currently in.
Big brown eyes, at my window. Dirty hair, torn clothes, often bare feet. Sometimes it's a woman carrying a naked baby, malnutritioned and appearing to be desperately in need of sustenance. Other times it's a young girl, carrying an even younger child. There are times that they prop a leg up on the rearview mirror, bearing scars and new wounds.
There has also been the occasion of the cross-dresser ... the men in full makeup and saris yelling and banging hard on the window. There are the rowdy beggars, that hit their maimed hands loudly on the door of your car. There are also the quiet children that simply want to sell you a plastic trinket, a loop of flowers or window shades. Yesterday it was the old man, carrying a small metal bucket, that offered a gentle bow and mouthed "Namaste" as he pleaded for money.
Kushal always quietly locks the doors, makes the tsk'ing sound that he has seemingly used to replace the common cussing you often hear from drivers.
I don't know their stories ... I don't know whether they are part of the rings that you hear about where they have been taken from their families to work the streets for a "pimp." I don't know whether a couple of small coins would help or hinder. I don't know if it would be a good thing to carry small packets of food to hand out as we stop at the traffic light.
What I do know is that I am not oblivious to it. Even though a fly on the ceiling of my car may deduct that I simply don't care or that I am turning a blind eye to their pleas for money, because I either ignore their rapping on my window or shake my head "no" at them, as a request to move away from my car ... that isn't the case.
It gets to me every time. It bothers me E.V.E.R.Y single time. I wish that I could scoop them all up ... even the blind man being led by a younger comprade ... and bring them inside. Offer them cold water, a bath in our giant tubs (with bubbles even) and some nourishment.
I wish that I could share some of the excess that we have. I wish that I knew how my presence in Delhi is going to affect the being of someone else.
In time ... I'll find out. I'll soon be privy to knowledge that will help me determine what it is that I can do while I'm here.
For now ... I'll continue to silently shake my head at them, through the window of my car, and tell them to go away. I'll continue to read my book and drink my coffee with that glass that is between us.
The windows rolled up tight, with the A/C blasting.
