Remembrances Of Calcutta Essay 1

“Remembrances of Calcutta”

The smell grows dank, as the streets become narrower. Walls are replaced by trickling streams running along the side of the road. Children dart around the rickshaws, bicycles, and the occasional car as garbage piles rise high in the streets. The piles steadily grow higher, mocking their patrons in doing the impossible: rising from the streets where they began their lives. In a day to day struggle, children grow up quickly, too quickly, though the rapid ascent is not swift enough.
In a world where meals are uncertain, there is little room for childhood. Responsibility is required, the burden forcing backs to grow strong. Girls are married immediately upon crossing the threshold of physical womanhood. Once married, she is no longer a mouth to be fed, making the transition from dependent to provider. Looking out the doorway upon children of her own, she wishes for them a childhood better than the one laid upon her, but without money to send them to school, the cycle will continue.
The laughing eyes are quieted, as all focus now belongs on me. I am conscious of my clothes, showing no signs of wear, in a dark contrast to threadbare coverings, draped loosely over bony shoulders. My bracelets jingle. As earrings bob from my ears, the polished silver reflects the dusty streets and empty stares. I am ashamed of the sparkle, as new sandals protect my lily petal feet from the heat of the sun beaten ground. My feet are kept cool, as the breeze gently tickles. This same playful breeze does nothing for my burning face, as it is warmed by the army of stares.
The home of my Father’s Aunt, shown to be spotlessly clean by the light creeping in through the solitary window. The living area: the size of my present bedroom. I am ashamed of what I have, and even more so, of what I wanted.
Savoury aromas fill the air; I am hungry. Summoning my voice, though it is weak from burden of a new perspective, I think to voice my hunger. Hunger: the young mother huddled at the street corner, reaching out with a hand hardened by work, begging alms while gesturing towards her child. Dropping the coins into her hand, her leathery touch clings to my fingertips. Their eyes plead to me as I allow myself to remember: I am not really hungry; I do not know what hunger is. At night, when the darkness is full, and the sound empty, I return to the place of remembrance. I tiptoe through the streets, a silent visitor, watching the struggle for all that I have . . .
Memories weight my head, reminding me to look straight. The sight is beautiful, for I have nothing to make me unhappy. I live in a beautiful home. Nine pairs of shoes lined neatly in a stacked closet: because of this, I am not completely at ease. My days harbour constant reminders of the injustices in this world. I want the pain of knowing; I keep it as a reminder of the good that cares enough to hurt.
I do not wish to portray my India this way. I can set this scene over and over again, from the villages of Central America to the City of New York where the people struggle daily to rise.