One hour in India

Meandering along the roadside in regional Rajasthan, I was engulfed in an intoxicating haze of incense as I walk past stall fronts. The blisteringly dry sun is a painfully hot reminder that I am in fact, in India. There is little respite from the heat; the shaded spots are few and far between and they come at a premium price. The air is hot and the road greedily absorbs the suns daily offerings, which is adding several degrees to the already rising mercury. The women float by in a sea of rainbow sari's and somehow manage to look always look glamorous. The foot path is just a squeeze of space between market stalls and sleeping Brahman cattle, which are painted with bright colors and draped with marigold garlands. As I was watching the everyday chaos of Indian traffic unfold in front of me, a young girl of perhaps ten years approached me holding a young infant. The messy and un-kept girl who was quite obviously from a low caste was tugging at my clothes and begging. The girl grabbed my arm forcefully and placed the infant in my hands. The baby was covered with large scabs; she was malnourished and had a dried crust under her eyes and nose. The infant was just staring helplessly at me with her large deep brown eyes. I was interrupted by a large round middle aged man who knew the girl. She is apparently a local con artist who is sent to work by her parents who are moonshine alcoholics; this is a common problem among poor Indian slum families. The girl hires the baby from another local family to gain sympathy money. She claims to be a street child looking after her little sister and she has no money to survive. I was deeply and profoundly affected by seeing this malnourished and quite obviously ill infant and having her thrown into my arms. I often wonder how the young girl and the infant have grown and developed and what they are doing with their lives, if they are still alive. One hour in an Indian street has the potential to change a life and your perspective of it.