Ten Minute In Madras, India

The woman to my right--in pale blue and bright yellow--holds a small child, his arm in a cast. Her eyes beg while her hand mimics the movement of scooping rice into the child's mouth. I turn away, remembering what I had been told about beggars such as these. There are women here who deliberately harm their child (cut off an arm, break a leg) to gain more sympathy when begging. A young boy in a diaper-like skirt clings onto my arm. He requests a pen, a coin, some gum, or a photo. I gently shake him loose.

I wade through this humid crowd to a fruit stand, beautifully arranged. As I move closer I can hear a huge bin of shiny dates and raisins humming with the sound of the multitude of flies feeding on them. A young woman with long black hair and wide eyes approaches the bin. She is wearing the modern pant-like sari of the new woman of India, and has deep purple kohl on her forehead. She gently shoos the flies from the dates, places some in a bag and pays for them.

As always in this outdoor marketplace in Madras, a strong pungent odor hangs in the airŅa mixture of jasmine and dung. During my first few days in India the odor had seemed so overwhelming that I feared breathing too deeply. As the days passed, so did my awareness of its distinctive presence.

The babble of the crowded streets had also seemed very overwhelming during my first few days here. Now the voices passed into my subconscious. My carefully trained American ears picked out any English that was thrown my way and regarded the rest as background ambient sound.

The street is made of dirt that has been packed down through the years by carts and pedestrians. A visible layer of dust floats through the air always. A small group of children spots me and runs over. They are eager to take my hand and lead me to the "very good shops" where they can get me "special deals."

These children are clothed in rags. Their deep coffee skin is dry and dirty. They smell of spoiled milk and urine. I'm studying them when bells from a fast-moving cart come up behind us loudly. A small brown hand yanks me out of the way as the cart thunders past. A girl smiles up at me, her hand still firmly implanted in mine. She is skin and bones, toothless and bald--a seven year old senior citizen. I give her a stick of gum and am befriended for life.

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