Circus Swim

Day at the circus, night in the slum, this is the title of the upcoming chapter in A Fine Balance and a fitting description for walking through the flooded streets of New Delhi. The constant chatter of street vendors, car-horns, power-drills, oily-hungry bicycle wheels, peaceful-easy cows and squealing dogs is not unlike a buoyant circus anthem. Different color: Delhi is not a red and yellow circus tent; but the tap-dancing optimism of the Big Top is strangely present amidst the clamor and filth of these crowded streets.

The streets of Pahar Ganj are crowded not only by people, pushcarts, bicycles, sledge-hammer demolition and an endless line of tea-stalls but also by water: flooded. Flooded by the monsoon rain that creates slop pools of mud and garbage on the drain-less streets. Flooded by people scurrying through the puddle-playground as they dodge rickshaws and motorcycles on their way to wherever they are going. Flooded by overwhelming olfactory stimulation: the stench of piss and shit and bloody meat hanging in the window, waiting for the next eager customer. One does not walk through the streets of Delhi but swimsthe rushing waves, taking care to come up for air every now and again.

Today we walk away from the tourist gauntlet of Pahar Ganj and into the Muslim neighborhood across the bridge: on the other side of the train-tracks. We allowed ourselves to get lost on the narrow medieval streets that zig and zag their way under a web of withered electrical wires,florescent laundry and decrepit buildings. I take a deep breath, feeling more anonymous here. No one tries to sell me anything but just stares with harmless, curious eyes, observing my white skin as a part of the grand circus. Like the bearded-lady, perhaps: "Step right up and see the strangest of the strange: a green eyed girl whose skin knows not the brown kiss of the sun!" I look out at the world so busy buzzing around me and marketplace eyes stare back, wondering at the strange creature who has entered the familiar web of their existence. Which one of us is the museum display? Which one of us peers out from behind the glass display? Neither. The rain falls upon us both.

When we pause a moment under the weary barber-shop awning, I see her. The shopping bag hides her small frame but her black onyx eyes cut through shadow and stench and find my smile. Beauty shines forth in unexpected places: a young girl in a white dress walking so easy through the circus-strange mess of shit and marigolds and blood and bananas and temple bells. The rickshaw wheels and pushcarts interrupt her feather-light steps with the jarring staccato of sweaty effort, but onyx-eyed girl does not miss a beat. She carries on her way with a sweet nonchalance as if the mud-happy motorcycles, irritated taxi horns and three-legged dog gangs are the most ordinary of characters. But for me, a nameless witness, I stand amazed at the resilience of this child's ease and confidence amidst the chaos and circus-strange intensity of the flooded Delhi streets. The corner of my smile perks up with a sweet breath of gratitude: children are among the best teachers of perseverance and grace.