topon

the malik ghat flower market in kolkata is a wonderful symbolic representation of the city's contradictiory 'nature.' this market seems to be one of the most significant spaces in the city. for me it was the overwhelming bright colors set alongside the filth that tickled my insides, but for the people of kolkata it is a place that is indispensable for their daily movements. these flowers will soon decorate images and structures of kali, shiva, and vishnu, which are found on the streets, in restaurants and shops, and in buses and cars; pretty much anywhere and everywhere. i was struck by the beauty of this place. and in between the beauty and the filth, where we stopped for a cup of chai, i came across topon: "there are no americans in kolkata, only american imperialism." for topon, americans=homogeneity via right- wing politics. as i began to share my political views with him, defending an american culture which i am familiar with (my friends are dope), he bobbed his head to the side. this is the most basic gesture in this culture, one which i have realized can mean anything. i like to think that i added complexity to his initial understanding, which has broadened. like many of the reactions i've gotten when i tell people that i'm cuban-american, when i mentioned this to topon, he lit up. "west bengal is a communist state." he was proud, and i think that he felt a connection with me. we exchanged a few more words and i walked away. but an interior dialogue continued. how can he be so proud of this 'communist state?' a state that is plagued with extreme poverty and, although no longer in the constitution, still a victim to the caste system. yes, a victim. "but the caste system only defines one's work," another man said to me after i criticized this ideological pride that he shared with topon. only? and most people seem to accept it all. it's karma. it's a part of this circular movement. but not for me. for me it's injustice...

water

it wasn't until friday that i was able to realize the significance of being able to give my grandmother the last drink of water she was to have before her death. although i don't know how the sisters know, they call this man ashok. i say man because they also told me they think he is around 23 years old, although my guess was no older than 15. his temperature is high and his eyes as wide as the base of a snowman. as i tilt the tin cup and watch the water spill into his mouth, something happens. what i've been thinking of as my subtle disengagement/practical disposition is destroyed, along with a little more of my esophageal lining. and since my toilet paper is locked away in my bag, behind the ancient lock with the other bags, i leave behind dribblings of kimchi fried rice on the toilet seat. one of the sisters asks me if i am praying and i tell her no, that i'm not feeling well. she tells me that i could leave for the day or go sit on the roof for a while. it finally hit me, the reality of it all. after seriously considering busting out, i went back to ashok. i tried feeding him and continued giving him water. his eyes surveyed the room. where did he come from? what does he think of all these weird looking people who are now taking care of him? after rubbing a cold towel on his face, much water and some food (with the help of the sister) we sat him up and he suddenly came back to this world. he picked up the cup and drank on his own. he scratched his limbs. everyone danced around his bed, and sang 'miracle! i was moved and felt happy and fortunate that i had stayed. later that night i told myself, without fully believing it, that even if he was already dead i had experienced something sacred. tonight i accompanied the sisters to a shelter for girls that they've picked up off the street. we gave them candy and played games. i was in charge of bowling. for pins we used half empty water bottles. the ball was a harder version of the stress balls i remember them giving children at the dentists office. we all had an amazing time, and their faces brought joy to my heart. after dinner i found out that ashok had died.

touch

i remember my father's finger cocking upwards and my nails digging into the palm of my right hand. i had missed. this game decorates my childhood memories. #35's left leg curls up against his right leg, which remains extended. to the curled leg is attached something resembling a foot. this shriveled hunk of flesh wraps around the rusty bar of his bed, which he never gets up from and will die in. he is blind and cannot speak. with his one tooth he eats more than most of the other patients, and grunts when we wants more. we play games together. i say 'we' but i'm not sure if he knows that we're playing. the first time i held his hand he dug his nails into my skin. two thoughts battled for attention. disease and the desire to be touched. i glide my index finger against the palm of his hand and he tries to grab it. he is sometimes better at this than i was as a child. i feed him sweets. we follow the grunting technique, but when i open his mouth to check if he has swallowed i find his tongue clenched against his throat. behind his tongue is the off white, green centered piece he had been working on. i smile and hope he feels my face-stretching resonating through our fingertips. the patients really like getting massaged with oils. sometimes i wonder if it's really a massage they want. we wash their clothes, serve them food and wash their dishes. they ask us for chai when they know there isn't any. they get upset when we don't understand their requests, which are in bengali. but something is happening here, something i also have no words for.

stained

173 worlds permanently silenced and all i could think about was the possible death of my upcoming journey. '26-11' shoved my desire for meaning into postponement. i am here now, in kolkata. i didn't see the runway until the wheels were beginning to glide against it. the air is so ridiculously polluted that the first gesture this city evoked from me was a throat pointed towards the baggage claim enterance. but nothing came out. i still have no words to describe the drive from the airport to our guesthouse (the sunflower). for some strange reason i haven't been able to reflect too much about what i'm encountering here. i think this is wondeful for now. i have been bombared with so many images, and words that seem to linger and then explode, like bubbles. car horns set the background for daily muslim prayers heard via loudspeaker throughout my whole neighborhood. the smells are as contradictory as the city itself. it is a city. "it's the newyork of india," we heard some foreigners say at the place where we've had breakfast the last couple of days. this morning we had breakfast at 'the motherhouse' with the other volunteers. bread, bananas and chai. and every night after volunteering i pass the same little yellow sweater on a vendors corner, stained and unloved. i look forward to passing by it every day. and while i will not buy this sweater, i am glad that no one else has.