with broken brick steps on either side wound its way up to what looked like the main centre of the small slum-like township.
I had no money, so a slum looked like a good place to catch my breath. I made my way throughthe throngs of people. No one gave me a second glance. A barefoot, crippled monk seemed to fit right in with the assortment of quirky characters on the street - urchins toting big black rifles, groups of young boys and girls carrying large stereos on their shoulders and belting out songs, cheerful, boisterous men and women sauntering to the beach in cheap swimwear, groups of hawkers peddling unhygienic but delicious-looking food. Rows of shacks stood tightly packed together on both sides of the road with unearthed wires dangling from a few electric poles outside.
With a pang, I thought of myself twenty, maybe twenty-five-years ago: a schoolboy dressed in a smart uniform, listening avidly to our class teacher explaining the plight of ‘those slum-dwellers’ on a school trip with other similarly privileged children to the Dharavi slum in Mumbai. Now I was ‘them’. Only, worse - without a dime to my name or a shack to call my own. Yet, I wasn’t particularly unhappy, perhaps due to the vibrant, joyful music that seemed to be playing in every corner of the shantytown.
I spotted a few urchins milling around what looked like a café, and decided to rest there for a while. A group of shaggy-haired black men sat on broken chairs, playing a board game that looked like carrom. They looked at me curiously for a moment. Then one of them pushed a chair towards me and they returned to their game. I rolled up the sleevesof my thick robe and wiped the perspiration from my head as I sat down.
I could rebuild my life, I thought with a sudden burst of optimism as I looked at the playful shadows caused by the mild March evening sun and the vibrant crowds. If I managed to get work somewhere - any kind of work - I could soon save enough money to take a flight to the US. There would be a problem with the paperwork - I would be classified as dead by now - but my past could be verified and I trusted the American system. Of course, the NASA offer wouldn’t be waiting for me, but being an MIT graduate would probably get me an entry-level job somewhere. Soon, I could restart the life I had left behind and in time, it would come to have some semblance of order. I could do this, I thought, yes, I could get back on my feet again.
A few women dressed in simple T-shirts and low-cut denim shorts sauntered into the café and Lara’s image flashed through my mind. No time for fantasies, I told myself sternly. I had wasted ten years chasing mirages, I couldn’t afford to waste a minute now.
‘You want a beer?’ A short, plump, dark-haired woman, probably the patron of the café, stood in front of me.
‘I don’t have money,’ I said in halting Portuguese.
She gave me a curious glance and went in.
She came back with a beer and a deep-fried snack.
‘Have beer,’ she said. ‘It’s hot outside.’
‘I don’t have money,’ I repeated.
‘No matter.’
I didn’t have the will to send it back. I gulped down the beer and took gigantic bites of the snack filled with meat, probably beef. How fickle I was. In a single moment, I had forgotten eight years of learning: to avoid alcohol, fried food and meat. The beer seemed to soothe the weariness in my feet and I stared vacantly at the people strolling past. Women with shopping baskets, children in school uniforms, young men and women holding hands. I had missed this sense of normalcy, perhaps that’s what I had come chasing after. Just as I was drifting into a soporific lull, a sudden movement caught my attention.
‘Duck!’ I shouted, my hand moving instinctively to push down the head of one of the carom players. The other players scattered immediately.
We both fell crashing down from our chairs as a bullet whizzed past his head. Reflexively, I pulled up the board with my
I had no money, so a slum looked like a good place to catch my breath. I made my way throughthe throngs of people. No one gave me a second glance. A barefoot, crippled monk seemed to fit right in with the assortment of quirky characters on the street - urchins toting big black rifles, groups of young boys and girls carrying large stereos on their shoulders and belting out songs, cheerful, boisterous men and women sauntering to the beach in cheap swimwear, groups of hawkers peddling unhygienic but delicious-looking food. Rows of shacks stood tightly packed together on both sides of the road with unearthed wires dangling from a few electric poles outside.
With a pang, I thought of myself twenty, maybe twenty-five-years ago: a schoolboy dressed in a smart uniform, listening avidly to our class teacher explaining the plight of ‘those slum-dwellers’ on a school trip with other similarly privileged children to the Dharavi slum in Mumbai. Now I was ‘them’. Only, worse - without a dime to my name or a shack to call my own. Yet, I wasn’t particularly unhappy, perhaps due to the vibrant, joyful music that seemed to be playing in every corner of the shantytown.
I spotted a few urchins milling around what looked like a café, and decided to rest there for a while. A group of shaggy-haired black men sat on broken chairs, playing a board game that looked like carrom. They looked at me curiously for a moment. Then one of them pushed a chair towards me and they returned to their game. I rolled up the sleevesof my thick robe and wiped the perspiration from my head as I sat down.
I could rebuild my life, I thought with a sudden burst of optimism as I looked at the playful shadows caused by the mild March evening sun and the vibrant crowds. If I managed to get work somewhere - any kind of work - I could soon save enough money to take a flight to the US. There would be a problem with the paperwork - I would be classified as dead by now - but my past could be verified and I trusted the American system. Of course, the NASA offer wouldn’t be waiting for me, but being an MIT graduate would probably get me an entry-level job somewhere. Soon, I could restart the life I had left behind and in time, it would come to have some semblance of order. I could do this, I thought, yes, I could get back on my feet again.
A few women dressed in simple T-shirts and low-cut denim shorts sauntered into the café and Lara’s image flashed through my mind. No time for fantasies, I told myself sternly. I had wasted ten years chasing mirages, I couldn’t afford to waste a minute now.
‘You want a beer?’ A short, plump, dark-haired woman, probably the patron of the café, stood in front of me.
‘I don’t have money,’ I said in halting Portuguese.
She gave me a curious glance and went in.
She came back with a beer and a deep-fried snack.
‘Have beer,’ she said. ‘It’s hot outside.’
‘I don’t have money,’ I repeated.
‘No matter.’
I didn’t have the will to send it back. I gulped down the beer and took gigantic bites of the snack filled with meat, probably beef. How fickle I was. In a single moment, I had forgotten eight years of learning: to avoid alcohol, fried food and meat. The beer seemed to soothe the weariness in my feet and I stared vacantly at the people strolling past. Women with shopping baskets, children in school uniforms, young men and women holding hands. I had missed this sense of normalcy, perhaps that’s what I had come chasing after. Just as I was drifting into a soporific lull, a sudden movement caught my attention.
‘Duck!’ I shouted, my hand moving instinctively to push down the head of one of the carom players. The other players scattered immediately.
We both fell crashing down from our chairs as a bullet whizzed past his head. Reflexively, I pulled up the board with my
Similar Books
