When the alarm rings I roll over, sweating in the 100 degree

indoor heat. As I result I stain my face blue from the dye in my Indian

block print bedsheet.  Five minutes later my partner calls from

Seattle, and we laugh and miss one another and argue about spending

habits.  The talking is an important part of my morning ritual.  It is

a sonar changing of the guard.  It alerts the rats, shrews and mice

that their dominance of the house is over and that their bedtime has

come, just as my day begins.  I am like Cinderella, esconched in vermin

and good cheer.  Of course, my little friends poop on the floor rather

than assist in sweeping it.

 

When my ablutions are completed, I hit the pavement (which is a

dirt road) for my journey to school. I greet my neighbors in the usual

way, by not looking them in the eye.  This is because to do so would

only encourage them to steal my glasses or ever so enticing banana. 

The monkeys  outside my house are not afraid of me, because I both tred

heavily, and do not carry a big stick.  Its a regular

occurence for some big fellow to saunter by with his red rump in the

air and wave to his family.  His loved ones sit on a fence across the

street.  Mamma monkey displays her extreme agility, whilst her wee one

clings to her back.  Baby in place, she tiptoes across a balconies and

the lije, her exposed dugs clanking together like voiceless symbols. 

 

Along the main road, young and old men sit in the deep squat

indicative of their class and professions.  In this pose of knees near

ears and seat an inch or two off the ground, they do their morning

work.  Irons heated on fires work deftly removing creases on clothes

stretched over cardboard on the sidewalk.  Crosslegged the garland

maker selects blossoms from his basket and strings his wares together

under a canopy.  A man we respectfully call Uncle Ji squats in the

sidewalk tent in which he lives and works, mending shoes.  He has been

a boon to my roommate's ever breaking leather sandals and she regualrly

inquires after his health.  

 

I love this walk to school, dodging sarivallees on mopeds and smelling ghee, jasmine, urine and opportunity around every corner.

 

At the main intersections I occasionally race a camel against the

traffic.  I have a tendency toward victory, thanks to his being

shackled to a cart of wares.  Rickshaw drivers posture and preen,

offering their services.  Dead dogs steam in the morning heat and I

arrive at school. 

 

My return home in the afternoons expands to include my usual

errands.  I buy minutes for my phone, I chat with beggar children who

touch me with sticky fingers and croak at me.  I look longingly at

vendors deep friying carbs and mizing lassis.  I engage with my tailor,

and his loyal band of seamsters.  We always have something to discuss:

a lost dupatta, an ill fitting dress, a conception of the perfect

kameez.  On a day that will never come, we are all supposed to play

cricket together in the park.  Last, turning the corner into my lane I

say hello to my neighbors as they enjoy the quiet late afternoon calm.

 

Sam is three and most days can be spotted with and without his

mother in the same place.  He stands as Juliet upon his rooftop.  His

nose just peaks over the balcony, and he jumps to make himself heard.

 

"Aaaaaap.  Kaiiiiiiiii.  Sssay. Ho?" He squeakily thunders in

colloquial hindi, mixing his forms of address.  When I reply that I am

well, he is consistently delighted, then shy.

 

Ashish is thirteen, and he wears his hair up in a knot on top of

his head.  He is usually borne by an unmotorized bicycle and full of

smiles.  Our common interests are few, so other than the usual

pleasantries we quickly run out of things to say.  All the same, I look

forward to catching glimpses of Ashish streaming past, shouting my name

and waving.  It is nice to be known on the street where you live.

 

This is the path my day takes, and in its execution it is the path

my life has taken.  I am in India.  I live with a family in a middle-class neighborhood.  I speak broken Hindi and spend money because

I feel a triffle melancholy and I like pretty things.  When I return to

Seattle, the rain will be more steady and the weather cool.  I will

hunger for wildlife and return to my position at the zoo, communing

with our grief-stricken mother elephant who always makes me cry.  I

will drive in the lines, and pay electricity bills and give baths to my

son.  Pencils sharpened, I will return to my American life in the top

left corner of the country.  My path to school will be different, and I

will miss the little boys and the men and the sari-clad women and the

monkeys.  I will eat apples instead of mangos.  I will remember when I

was inside the postcard, instead of reading it.