She sits on the terrace with the sun on her face, pen in her hand. The culture surrounds her here and she absorbs it like the trees take in the Indian sun. Not even ten o’clock and the morning is a heavy thirty degrees. Her journal lies in her lap as she flips through the fears, battles and frustrations that accompanied her through this journey. Her finger stops on an entry describing her doubt as the plane had descended; What if I hate this? What the hell am I doing? She laughed to herself at the memory. Aunty joins her on the terrace, a steaming cup of chai in her hands, the screen door slamming behind her.
“Tea, Isha” she says, handing her the tiny mug. Aunty is already dressed in a vibrant, plum-colored sari, her grey-streaked hair pinned neatly back. As she moves around the deck attending to her tasks in a silent but companionable manner, the sari can be heard swishing with every step. Wrapped rather loosely, exposing only the small of her back, the near transparent fabric that extends to the shoulder tumbles down her arm each time she bends. She checks the laundry on the line before feeding last night’s leftover chapatti to Johnny, who pants excitedly as she saturates it with milk in his dish.
Once foreign, the morning’s noise has become a source of comfort for her. Someone is sweeping the walk below; the broom rustles rhythmically against the pavement while the neighbor’s children squeal and horns honk incessantly nearby. The medicine man next door is already harboring his usual queue of patients, their drivers fighting over the shade offered by the trees across the street. The boisterous rattle of an engine is coming near the house and she knows it’s her driver before the shabby blue rickshaw comes into view. She gets up, eager to leave. They will be waiting; another day, another lesson.
“Bye Aunty,” she says, but Aunty is slouched in her chair; head bowed and hands resting atop the newspaper in her lap.
A cloud of smoke emerges from the exhaust as the driver yanks the engine to life on the second try. The car loudly sputters and shakes as she hops into the back seat. This daily journey is always the same, but each experience is new. As the rickety 3-wheeler clamors past the buzzing markets, dark stares penetrate into the carriage. She meets the intense, curious glares and they make her blush. They pass people packed on top of truckloads, families of 4 on motorcycles, people sleeping in the grass; people everywhere.
The auto weaves in an out of lanes that no one seems to notice while honks and hands serving as signal lights. They take a turn and approach a slum on the left. She passes this slum every day with the urge to take a picture, but has to stop herself; how disrespectful. The houses are made of tin and flamboyant blue tarp, encircled by mud, garbage, and scrawny cows. There is a smell that lingers here; is a putrid smell of feces, unwashed skin, and soiled innocence. Yet the children flounder in the midst of it all. They run blissfully in circles clanging their sticks together. Some are without shoes, some without pants, all without the knowledge of the state they live in. Their mothers scrub the soot from their clothing in a murky stream nearby.
Finally, the red brick building comes into view, standing tall in the blue sky. She straightens, preparing herself. They turn in and drive past the nomads; families that build homes but are without homes themselves. The men clumsily lob hammers over their shoulders while women transport loads of freshly mixed cement on their heads. Children that were playing in the street disperse as the car approaches, but the tiniest little girl sits in the middle of the road. She remains there as the auto passes, blinking against the cloud of dust rising up in her face. No one seems to notice.
Left at the entrance, she is greeted formally by the doormen. Her name is already written in the visitor book as one of the men hand her a pen to sign. She can feel their admiring stares as she scribbles a signature. She hesitates, then strides past the heavy doors into the sunlit building. She is greeted by the smell of dahl cooking in the kitchen. It makes her excited for lunch, when she will pour that goopy liquid over rice while dark eyes smile at her behind aluminum plates. She can see them all now, in the dining hall casually working on their studies. Three tiny boys are scurrying by, late to join the rest, but they stop to hold out their hands for her to shake.
“Good Morning Ma’am,” they say with timid smiles, teeth a shocking white against their delightfully darkened skin. These smiles remind her of her purpose.
It is here that she is transformed; it is here she realizes the world is beautiful.
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