My daily dose of encouragement, sponsored by St. Joseph's Church in Juhu

Ch-ch-changes

Although in my twenty six years I have never admitted it, a new image has become increasingly prevalent in my head. Call it my biological clock, call it whatever you like; it feels natural enough to be such a thing. Up until very recently, the idea of becoming a mother was something I had always dreaded. Not because of the actual act of giving birth, but rather the mere fact that I would be responsible for a human being. I would have never thought of myself as capable of such a thing. I guess that is where living in India is truly leaving its mark on me. I’ve never in my wildest dreams ever felt as fiercely protective over another human being; the awareness of that feeling (if/when it happens) really does shock you.

I was about to steal a child. Well, whilst that would obviously never be my intention, I guess there is no other way to describe it. He must have been no older than a month old, but it was hard to tell in the darkness and the smog. He was bent, half crooked, in the arms of a child, barely old enough to walk herself. The car had stopped at a crossroads not far from Mumbai airport. It was a common spot for beggars. Don’t get me wrong, during my first few months living in Mumbai, I figured I must have seen it all; from the Hijras to street children; to those with amputated limbs and much, much worse. I know now that I was wrong to assume anything.

You see, nothing is constant. The fragile beauty of living somewhere like Mumbai is that it can, and will, tumble now and then. Like a pyramid of cards the magic is over in the blink of an eye, exposing a raw, angry core. That night, I had to be stopped from leaving the car. I had to be pulled back, as I watched the crying babe in arms being poked and hit at by someone who should have been too young to know such violence. I had to try in vain to hold back the sobs as we left the junction. I had to try and sleep that night. I couldn’t.
Neither could you.