Sick and Homeless

I have a cold. No big deal, but all I want to do is sleep. I feel totally exhausted, feeling muscles I didn't realise I had, as my body is busy aching. Each cough seems to rattle my lungs inside my ribcage, and I am left gasping for air. This morning I was caught in a limbo between wanting to go to the orphanage and yet feeling horrid, while knowing that the despite wanting to make the children laugh and giggle, walk and talk, perhaps its better to let them sit rather than catch a cold. So I lay under my sleeping bag, listening to the beeps of the horns and jangle of the rickshaw wallahs from the road below. Every half an hour the church bells rang and at increasing frequency the muzzem call sings out from the mosque tower. A city alive with sounds and smells which peculate through the broken jagged glass of my open windows and wooden shutters which refuse to shut. A friend brings me a liter of freshly squeezed orange juice and it tastes totally divine. I drink the whole bottle within minutes. It costs the price of food for a child for two weeks. Two dollars. As the light fades, and zooms of the motor bikes and taxis increase, my headache catches each of my thoughts. Full of fever I take a few steps to the stone bathroom and watch the cold water full up the rusty bucket before pouring it over my body. I actually enjoy the chill of the tap water, and the privacy of the bathroom, as the bare light-bulb shines a soft and gentle beam providing an effective yet misleading glow of warmth.

I try to imagine how it would be to live on the street. With only a pavement for a bed, and a street pump for a shower. Full of fresh air filtered through the passing exhausts leaving each nostril coated in muck. Try to imagine – Ha! Try to image as I return to the comfort of my sleeping bag. A life of luxury. Total and complete privilege. What an unfair world, and how hypocritically grateful I am for my share of it.