Sunday, January 27, 2013

Highs & Lows in India


Sitting on the steps in Varanassi a shrouded beggar selling postcards approaches me moaning pitifully in Hindi. I look up to face a woman who is not that old, maybe only about fifty, but she looks like a wiseled old woman. Her face and neck resemble a mass of brown melted candle wax and her bottom lip is swollen like a leech full of blood and ready to explode. I catch my breath, horrified, I have come face to face with my first sighting of a dowry burn victim. This is the horrific practice where a woman is set alight in an 'accident' because her husband or his family want more dowry money and will attempt to kill her in order to get it. If the bride dies then the husband can remarry and collect another dowry, if she survives she is shunned by the community and forced to leave the home as damaged goods and like this woman left to survive by begging or peddling goods on the street.

I feel so angry, frustrated and helpless looking at her, disgusted by such a seemingly backward and primitive society that can allow such violations of human rights to occur and go unpunished. While outlawed in India crimes like this still happen, especially in more rural communities and will often go unpunished with the victim herself left to take the blame. I find it extremely sad and upsetting. India can be a bloody harsh country, especially for women. There are days like this one when I feel that I just can't take anymore of it. I've had all I can handle of the heat, the poverty, the dust, the begging, the repulsive sleazy men, the rotting rubbish, the filth, the grime, the rip-offs, the mosquitoes, the shit, the spitting, the touts, the traffic, the cold showers, the power-cuts, the pollution, the pissing, the noise, the staring, the dress codes, the ants, the flies, the squat toilets and overpowering smells. Through tears of frustration I cry hating India and wanting to leave on the next available flight.

Then in a heart-beat, just when I have resolved never to return again, everything is turned on its head and I come to understand this diverse country just a little bit more. On the very same steps, in the same spot the next evening, a small girl approaches me, again selling postcards. I get chatting to her and I ask her about her life. Her name is Punita and she is just ten years old. She is one of six sisters and two brothers and she has been working in this job selling postcards for the last four years. Her day begins at 5am when she gets up and dressed and helps to get her younger sisters ready for school. She then has breakfast and walks for an hour to school which begins at 7am. She has classes until 1pm and then walks for an hour back home again. At home she will wash, eat and maybe sleep and then get ready to head out to work. She arrives at the steps on the Ganges at 4pm and will usually work for up to five hours until 9pm at night. Any money that she makes she hands directly over to her teacher who gives her a percentage of the small profit. 'I like this job' she tells me. 'Money is everything' she adds solemnly  with a seriousness that defies her tender years. I nod my head, because I can't disagree with her, hearing how difficult her life is at just ten years old, I don't doubt that for her family, money is indeed everything. 

While we are chatting a small skinny old man in raggy traditional clothing approaches us and stands staring silently at me, he must be at least eighty years old. I assume he is another beggar and get ready to swat him away. Then to my surprise he leans in close to me and asks if he can speak with me, he turns to the little girl and apologises for interrupting our conversation. 'I would really love to speak with you' he says widening his eyes in demonstration. 'Please, please, can you tell me............what is the name of your mother country?' he asks earnestly, leaning in close to hear my response. 'I tell him that I am from Ireland. 'Ireland' he repeats clapping his hands together with delight and breaking into the happiest warmest smile I have ever seen. He is a sprightly little man with sparkling brown eyes and he tells me that he is just 'so so happy to speak to someone from Ireland'. 'I'm not sure if he even knows where Ireland is as he seems to be mixing it up with Iceland. But we sit on the steps the three of us, me the Western tourist, the little street girl and the old man and have a great chat about life. I begin to see them both as people with lives and needs very different to my own and not just the pesky beggars who annoy me on a daily basis. My heart warms towards mother India again for just when I have her completely written off, she turns to show me another side of her diverse tapestry, the beauty of her people.

It strikes me that sometimes we just have to look a little bit closer to understand the full picture. Things aren't always what they seem and it can be a big mistake to write something off without giving it a proper chance. While there is no doubt that I have had some pretty trying days during my time here in India, I can also say that I have learned a tremendous amount about life and been put to the test in ways I could never have imagined possible. 

India can be a vibrant, colourful, inspiring and magical country but it is also not for the faint of heart-

Any place that can provoke such strong reactions in me, I know is a place that I will not forget in a hurry!

Namaste from India,

Arlene x


4 comments:

  1. Mum told me to read this blog in particular as she said it was so poignant and that she was nearly crying reading it. Well she wasnt wrong! Amazing - I could really picture the scene when i was reading it. You write so articulately x

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  2. Amazingly described- how interesting!

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  3. Fantastic account Arlene & so well written. Mind yourself x

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  4. Thanks a mil Bead!! Its been an amazing experience to be sure (-:

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