The Kingdom of Kolkata

(from Leia's journal)

Most days I walked with my head down. At first I told myself it was so that I could watch my steps as to avoid tripping and falling into the compost lined streets of Kolkata. And even though there is validity to this argument, it’s not wholly true. Kolkata’s streets are lined with beggers. Men, women, children, all homeless, jobless, hopeless. I stared at my feet, yes, to concentrate on each step, but more so that I wouldn’t have to concentrate on my surroundings; so I wouldn’t have to think about, or take in what I was having to see, having to smell, and sometimes even having reach out and touch me.

I discovered my reasons on the Metro, the subway line in Kolkata. Here, those who can afford this luxury, travel throughout the city. The train is usually filled with middle class Bengali’s headed to work, school, or shopping. It is here that I truly discovered the real reasons for my downcast head. Sitting just across from me were two other Indian young ladies. Much like any other day on the train, just about everyone was staring, some whispering, some pointing and even laughing. I held my head down, and realized that when I did so, I didn’t have to see my own objectification. Staring at my feet allowed me to escape the task of bearing witness to it. This was my escape from the world around me.

In this city, I am the rarity. People stare at me, sometimes puzzled, sometimes disgusted, sometimes just stare, at my western clothes and failed salwar attempts, at the strange coiled locs that are my hair. They stare at my mouth and gawk at the weird accent and strange words that come from my mouth. Yes, here I am the rarity. How strange for me this is. How strange indeed for my western eyes. Here, in Kolkata, India, in the State of West Bengal, where every boy has the same hair cut, every man the same mustache, and every women the same hairstyle, the African American with western clothes and the southern accent is peculiar.

But for my western eyes, when they were ready to see, saw this world much differently. My downcast head only allowed me to escape momentarily. Soon, looking down forced me to witness children sleeping on the street. Infants playing only inches away from raging traffic while their parents rested on the concrete that I use as a sideway and that they use as a home. My lowered head forced my eyes to see the brokenness of elderly women, probably widows, with tattered clothing and missing limbs, unable to stand, unable to walk, unable to work, unable to eat, only able to sit on the fringes of life and death. And when I closed my eyes, feeling tired and betrayed by myself whether morning or night, still I was unable to escape my surroundings. My dreams were filled with them. And in the mornings, during my breakfast, I could hear the cries of a child, wails from the depths of his empty belly, the same hour I filled mine.

How strange is this world that we live in. How strange indeed. Here, I am odd, a foreigner, a stranger, a phenomenon, while poverty, begging, homelessness, and disparity remain the norm. Here the African American and her western garb are displeasing ascetically, while the tattered clothes and dirt covered innocent faces of children are the rule. Here my presence is continually queried while the perpetuation of the continued commodification of the bodies of women of all ages goes unquestioned. How strange is this world that we live in, how strange indeed.