Friday, Dec. 22, 2006

The day begins extremely early.

I wake up at 4:30am and by 5am, Prashant and I zipping through a heavy layer of fog on his scooter. I am going to photograph the female laborers who clean the streets early in the morning.

But before this, we hear chanting and stop. Some widows have gathered at a building and are chanting for chapattis in the morning cold. I am wearing a heavy jacket, pants, gloves and thick socks; they are wearing thin saris and shawls and go barefoot. I don’t know how they can tolerate the cold.

The chanting ends, and they each receive two chapattis for their work. Other widows who did not make it into the building’s courtyard to chant wait at a gate; they too receive chapattis.

Prashant and I make our way to a tea shop. It is too dark to photograph workers yet; we must wait until the sun is about to rise and the light is creeping into the sky. We sip tea from clay cups and wait.

****

Another school worker meets us; he guides us to some areas where the female laborers will appear.

The area is dangerous. Prashant says even he would not want to walk through it alone. We walk close together through the uneven roads, avoiding piles of animal dung and loose bricks.

The first woman I photograph is sweeping the road. It is still incredibly dark, so it is hard to get a clear photo. But the colors of the pre-dawn are just gorgeous.

Next we encounter more women who will sweep and pick up garbage from along the sides of the streets. They are happy to have their photos taken, happy to have their hard work recognized.

One woman in a bright pink sari sweeps trash amidst the early morning traffic. She dodges rickshaws, Tempos and pedestrians. Fog swirls around her.

Then I see a little girl with a white bag sifting through street trash. She is gathering any potentially valuable waste to sell. She gives the money to her family.

I follow her into an area of the street that looks like a dumping ground. There is trash everywhere. I almost step on two dead puppies that are mixed in with the rubbish. She stares at me, curious. She is 8 years old.

There is another woman, a widow. She sweeps more trash. I shoot. Then she crouches beside the pile of trash she has gathered. Someone lights it on fire. She warms her hands.

****

Now Prashant and I go looking for more widows and more women to photograph. We encounter one widow who lives with and supports all of her sons, daughters, and grandchildren.

Then we journey to the home of another widow. She is 35 and has three children. Her home is nothing more than a room surrounded by mud walls. Light seeps in through numerous holes.

There is an open area in front of the room. This is covered only by a tarp and random pieces of cloth. The woman’s husband made it with a metal sheet, but after he died, it was not replaced. There is one bed in this semi-covered area; it’s held together by ropes.

When it rains, water floods the enclosed room, forcing the family to seek refuge under the tarp. They all huddle on the single bed. If it is nighttime, they don’t sleep.

I photograph the woman cooking in her shack. I want to photograph the tarp “roof” somehow. Then I have an idea: stand on the roof of the mud room. I climb up carefully. The mud roof is weak in spots, and I tread carefully. I take a few shots and scramble down the ladder, fearing the roof will collapse.

The widow has no consistent job; she does odd jobs around Vrindavan whenever she gets the chance.

Normally, even poor families will make you tea when you visit their homes. But this woman doesn’t. “She has nothing to offer,” Prashant tells me.

****

The most moving part of my day and week occurs this afternoon.

Prashant and I visit the home of yet another widow. She is 21 years old. She is my age, but she could pass for much younger. Her skin is soft, her eyes are like a teenagers. She has a sweet personality. Her face still hasn’t lost its childish glow.

This girl married when she was 17. She had one daughter. Then her husband ran away with her sister.

A rumor reached her that her husband had died in an accident. But only a rumor. No verification. So she still hopes he will return. She hasn’t completely erased the red mark on her forehead, which distinguishes a married Indian woman. But it is smaller than it used to be.

Prashant asks her if she would consider remarriage. Nay. She wants her husband back. She wants the jerk to come back.

Indian women believe their husband is a god, Prashant tells me. So love is blind.

The girl’s 3-year-old daughter gazes intently at me while her mother works in the background. I shoot.

Then I ask if I can get a photo of them together. Such a young mother, already a victim of widowhood. And a young daughter doomed to repeat the cycle of poverty and despair that churns so quickly here.