Thursday, Dec. 14, 2006

The start of any normal day.

Not for many people in the shantytowns of Vrindavan.

Prashant tells me that the people in a shantytown near the school are being kicked off of their land. New housing is going up, and authorities don’t want the trash and stench that accompany the shantytowns.

So the people will leave. But where are they to go? It is not like they can buy a home somewhere across town. They will have to disassemble their homes--made of clothing, bramble and metal scraps--and carry their belongings to the next suitable spot, where they will build again.

There is one man who built a small brick home only yesterday. Today the news comes that he will have to move it. He built it up brick by brick; now he will have to tear it down in the same manner.

The people will not move for a couple of days; when this happens, I will be there to document it.

In the meantime, I head back to the school.

****

I try to update the blog, but the Internet connection is sluggish today, so I go downstairs to eat kitchri with the students.

Soon another guide asks me if I am ready to go. Where? More widows.

We arrive at the Nepalese widow community, where I have already been. So then we drive along the outskirts of Vrindavan, looking for something to photograph. Then it occurs to me that I should revisit the shantytowns near the school that I visited near the beginning of my trip.

If you saw these shantytowns here from far above, you’d probably think they were garbage dumps. There are clothing and trash everywhere, dogs snarling at each other. Occasionally people pop their heads out from these “homes."

I hop off of the scooter, and I am reminded of my friend Thomas' experience in Uganda. The kids are so fascinated by me and my camera. They gather around in droves, peering at the dark glass on my lens, trying to touch it, looking at the LCD screen.

These kids are covered in dirt. Their skin is three shades lighter than in should be because of all of the dust caked on their mocha skin.

My guide has to shout at them to keep away while I am walking around the shantytown. They are all so curious that they follow me, they won't leave me. I walk from hut to hut. I am trying to post several photos of what I saw there; there are far too many things to write about.

One image sticks out in my mind, and this is a little boy. He is lying on the warm pavement in front of his hut. He is half-naked. He is screaming, crying, for someone, anyone, to comfort him. Flies buzz around. There is no parent in sight.

****

As we are leaving, my guide spots a little girl playing in a well of dirty water and points her out to me. There are other children crowded around her, so there are shadows blocking her face. But once she spots me, the shadows shift, and suddenly her bright faces emerges from the darkness. I shoot. She is smiling, happy as can be to play in the water. A beautiful child. A beautiful child amid so much waste and sadness.

I am prepared to hop on the scooter again to return to the school, when one woman from the shantytown stops me. Hare Krishna. She hands me a bundle of yellow flowers, freshly picked. Hare Krishna. I am moved.

****

I am dusty, thirsty and exhausted. But the evening is not yet over. There is kitchri for hundreds of poor people around Vrindavan. They flock to the school and fill the main area. One little girl leads her blind grandmother in by pulling her on a stick.

The children again huddle around me. Please, take my photo. Please, hold my hand.

A man visiting India from the UK is there. He and I strike up a conversartion. It's funny, he says, how in the US and many places in Europe, we fight with our parents. Argue about useless things. Here, the kids are desparate for human contact. They want to hold your hand. They want a hug. In their eyes is only love.