Wednesday, October 12, 2011


I feel you tug on me sleeve. Looking down, I see your dead eyes and moving hands cupped like a bowl.

"paisa, paisa."

I can't help but look into your eyes. Where do you come from, little one? Do you have a mother that loves you like my mother loves me?

I ask myself why it's you and not me. I know you ask yourself the same thing.
I don't have an answer.

I'm sorry I ignore you. I'm sorry I don't give you rupees. But I know it won't help you. Because it does not go to you anyways.

I wish I could take you away from it all. I would give you the bed I sleep in and the clothes I have.

When you start to follow me around everywhere with your little sister on your hip, I become more and more frustrated. Sometimes with you, but mostly with life.

It's seems unfair.

Please forgive me.

Because I don't know the answer to that impossible question.

India is a place that surrounds you and suffocates you in every way. I feel so small, surrounded by the masses of people. I feel so blessed, surrounded by the poor and disfigured beggars. I feel exhausted, surrounded by constant chaos.

I feel responsible when I am suffocated by your constant pleas, little girl. Please remember me. Not for the rupees I didn't give, but for the prayer that I silently offered for you.

I'll be thinking of you, little one.

1 comment:

Janna Hargadon said...

Makes the tears flow. Thank you for broadening my world with your words and photo glimpses. Mom