Rooftop to Slum

The family of puppeteers and musicians perform on the rooftop of Anoop Hotel each night of the weekend: Jagdish, the puppeteer, his son Manshu, the assistant, an uncle on the harmonium and classical vocals, and a cousin on the tabla. The troupe plays the same show with the same spunk, the same jokes and smokes and puppet vignettes each night. I have already joined the lot of travelers that become fans three nights in a row: enjoying the music and fun and gorgeous confidence of these showman who make their living according to the generosity of their audiences.

Last night, in a respite between shows, the musicians continued playing and enjoying the pleasure of friendly improvisation with eyes closed and voices robust and rising in joyful crescendo. Jagdish saw me dancing in my chair and invited me to join their musical circle. From one moment to the next I went from a kind stranger to a tambourine player in the band: hired on for the next session. Moments in which white-skin dissolves into the drumbeat; when "other" and "foreign" melt into the ease and kindness of a stranger willing to take a chance as friend; moments such as these are among the most precious sand-grains in life's hour-glass. I am grateful to Jagdish for his merriment, his laid-back gestures, his easy acceptance of what is difference and willingness to invite me into the inner music circle.

And so we play and laugh and crescendo and stop suddenly to add a dramatic effect to the puppetry and dancing. I smile and laugh and feel at home on the rooftop in this otherwise totally alien city.

As night falls deep, from purple haze to black with hints of streetlight glow, our voices lower and instruments take rest. "Will you come have lunch with my family tomorrow?" asks Jagdish. "I would be honored." I say without hesitation. From talking with a French couple who are circus performers, I know that Jagdish lives in the slum and that his family will welcome me with open arms and offer me all they have and more. I do not fear the stench of the open sewer or the flies or the possibility of being sick from food or filth. Not for a moment. The concern that goes through my head is: what if they feed me with a week's wages? They will surely serve me like a queen and then watch me eat, not taking anything until I have finished and been served seconds and begged to take thirds until the sisters finally accept my thanks and take a bite for themselves and the children. What can I bring to this chance encounter?

I bring crayons, colored pencils and a pad of paper for drawing. I bring pencils and a sharpener, a camera and an open heart. I leave my judgment at home and stuff my gag-reflex to sewer stench deep in my pocket where it cannot breathe. I smile, put on clean clothes and hop on the metro to meet Manshu.

The slum is hidden behind street signs and shop entrances. From the main road, one has to etch-a-sketch a zig-zag canal before popping up just above the sewer pipes and between the broken concrete walls of the slum. The door to the house is made of rusty metal; the 1 year-old Anjaley greets me at the door: naked and covered in flies. I give her a kiss and her eyes grow wide as she gazes upon a face so unfamiliar. Jagdish's daughters welcome me into their living space: a bathroom-size concrete building covered by a humid black carpet and years of oil from the life that happens here. We sit and play and touch hands and look at jewelry and laugh. The daughters immediately focus their praise on my white skin, in broken English saying: "My skin: dark, ugly. You: beautiful." I try to explain to them that I believe they are beautiful just as they are; that their skin and eyes and smiles are gorgeous and I would love to look as radiant as they do. The women just look at me and laugh; I think they feel shyly happy for my complements.

The camera comes out and 30 hands begin to touch and grab and fight for a photo here and there. The sisters are especially happy to take photos with their small children. They are still children themselves: 18, 20, 22: but they each have a child on their hip -- learning to be children and mothers at the same time. It is challenging for me to see that baby Anjaley wants to nurse but her mother wants to take pictures and play and therefore just listens to her child cry for an eternal moment before raising the child's lips to her breast. And then, the tiny brother in the doorway: naked, surrounded by flies, learning that crying will not gain attention from the women because he need to learn to fend for himself on the hard streets of the slum. The sisters are lovely and kind and doing the very best they know how to raise their children in such a crowded, gray and harsh environment. But how hard it is to hear the children cry. They laugh, too: when we are playing the drum and playing peek-a-boo and especially when we are coloring with a fat red crayon and then blue and then yellow. The sisters are even more thrilled by the crayons: "Teach me how to spell my name," they insist sweetly, never having held a pencil or a crayon in their life. School is not an option, here. Tending to the family and marrying when the time is right: the contours of their life and their landscape. Once again, I recognize how rare and privileged a person is to have choices in her life: to have people even ask her the question, what do you dream of?

The afternoon is long and gorgeous and full of laughter and song and a heartfelt exchange of gifts. Yes, the mother feeds me with gorgeous food and the whole family, apart from the brother, Manshu, sit and watch me eat. Manshu, being the young man of the house at 12 years old exercises his authority with great confidence. It is surprising to see how at ease he is treating his sisters with a firm hand. He treats me as an honored guest and then loses his temper with the playful jokes of his older sisters. I kindly encourage him to see that I am just the same age as his sisters, that we are not so different at all, that he, please, should show them the same respect he shows me. Maybe he turns up his listening ear just a little. His sisters smile and we say a thousand times: Friends! Sisters! and signal to the circle of women with our hands.

Sangita asks me to sponsor her son to go to school when he turns five, three years from now. I explain to her that I do not want to make promises that I cannot keep; that five years from now I am not sure how we will be able to contact one another. But I encourage her to start saving and give her some funds to begin the collection: just a bit at a time. You are right to want education for your child, and you can give it to him: commit to it, one penny at a time! We understand each other in a clasping of hands and a hug. We express thanks for the shared songs, gifts and food. They invite me to stay with them whenever I like and I let them know that I will try and visit before I leave for the United States. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Blessings shared. From rooftop to broken concrete building, voices sing with laughter as loving kindness shines its light in even the darkest places.