December 28, 2011. I prepare for solitude. Pat and I walk through INA market, hundreds of stalls with fabric, jewelry, shoes, fruits, live animals caged in wooden bars, butchers wringing necks of shrieking chickens, the smell of fish in the top right corner of the alleys. Best price, one hundred rupees, very good, come in, looking is free, come in, downstairs, yes yes, very good.
A tattered woman in a pink headscarf pulls on my sleeve, the baby she carries is unhealthy and quiet, and she cups her hands, holds them out, shakes them, and raises her dirty fingernails to dry lips, back again outstretched, and the shop owners surround, watching. I am on a mission to find shoes, the cheapest possible, and I brush past, not looking her in the eye. She grabs my arm and I walk under awnings and concrete roofs and plastic canopies, and releases. I have no hope for her, today.
My placement is closed for the week, and I go to Earth Saviors Fundation, a school and hospice and orphanage and a home for abandoned old. The children cling, and a little girl in a white hoodie holds me and kisses the back of my hand, again, and I pull away a little. We play duck duck goose, the same girl is chosen by all, wearing pink and marron and green, and she runs, smiling nearly perfect white teeth and shining pigtails and the white hooded girl is never chosen, except by me.
A for apple, b for ball, c for cap, d for dog, are shouted by all, robots, they seem, and I draw a ball, what letter does this start with, a for applebforballcforcapdfordog, and some have books, but they draw pictures of white Santa and Christmas trees with presents below. I pick my jacket from the top of a dusty metal closet, and the teacher in the tented classroom, the roof plastic and damaged, says to me, "you are a good teacher." I laugh, thank you, not really, I just love kids. And she says it again, you are a good teacher. Do you come again tomorrow?
Yes, tomorrow.
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