Present Reflections

I can hear my footsteps. I can hear the wind, and the birds. I can hear the trees as their leaves move through the sun kissed breeze. I can feel the ground beneath each foot, as I slowly step soaking in the spacious silence of the afternoon. Surrounded by leafy roads, brick walls and tall sturdy houses. It is quiete. Their is fresh moving air all around me. I can see beyond bodies. There is space.

This is my Saturday afternoon. The metro has zoomed into the suburbs; only two stops after the bustling bursting busy Kalighat, but two stops far enough for the crowds to descend and leave a few empty spaces in the 'ladies' section of the carriages. When the doors open there is no fight to reach the platform; no battle with incoming pedestrians, but enough room to quickly stride off and through the turnstiles which never seem to need the key of the tiny card ticket. Outside of the station the Saturday afternoon is in full swing. The chat stalls a busy fishing out little crispy pieces of spicy delights from clear plastic sacks and expertly parceling them into neatly folded dishes of newspaper. No matter which day of the week, nor the time of day, hot and cold street snacks fringe the pavements, while wooden benches piled with hungry customers spill out onto the roads.

The auto rickshaws dodge between the trucks, cars and yellow battered taxis while the feet from the metro take on the oncoming traffic in a silent but calculated unity. We flow from one side of the road into the middle, where we all continue to walk in the same direction, around the invisible men at work and their wooden obstructions. Again we stop and watch the cars and cycles and then follow one another's lead, using our mass as individual protection. Arriving at our destination, the line of waiting auto rickshaws jump and rev into action, and three bodies pile in the front of each, while one sits either side of the driver. A continuous refill as each three-wheeler hurtles off, and 'we' - the incoming commuters - begin to dwindle in mass and disappear into the suburban streets.

I climb into the tin cab, swashed between a sari made with delicately decorated fine fabric, and a young man with a crisp clean white shirt and perfectly creased trousers. Hustle, chug, zoom, maneuver, moves the teenage boy behind the tiny wheel. The street moves by like a flick book of sketches. Shopping, buying, trading. We travel a few minutes only, and then the brakes screech slowing us to a gentle hubble-chug-chug and then unexpectedly bounce back into action and hurtle us to the side of the road. A calculated stop at which I climb out and hand the exact pre-counted change of four rupees to the driver. He briefly registers the coins before throwing them into the brown satchel handing from his control centre, protected by Ganesha, and a distractedly swinging garland of old plastic flowers. He has zoomed and dodged his way away before I have turned to cross the road.

The traffic has slowed. The distance between me and the centre of the market area has grown. Here it is quieter. It is less busy. I am standing in the centre of the old colonial suburban Kolkata; where old buildings still look regal and airy despite their need for renovation. Where wise trees cast their shade over the sprinkling of chai stalls. I stop at a small mountain of green coconuts, which rises like an oasis from the stale dusty pavement. I wave a ten rupee note and within seconds a machete has hacked off the top revealing a clear white cooling liquid, spilling over the sides and ready to be enjoyed. I take the turn down past the cinema, full of young guys wearing tight flared jeans and heavily gelled hair and talking in a hub-a-bub of shouts. And I sigh as my feet take me further into the space around me.

A few people wander down the street. Stopping to talk to one another, or to disappear through a door. I stop to tip the coconut back and drink what remains before throwing it into a huge pile of street garbage in the middle of the road. Two cows are meandering through the rubbish, munching on pieces of vegetable sodden paper. I follow the landmark of a tiny hindu shrine, protected by iron bars and brightly decorated before turning towards 'Regents Park' police station. A single army jeep is parked outside, as a man with a watering can tends to the shrubbery. The trademark ding ding of a bicycle rickshaw sounds the arrival of a lungi clad man who stands his way past, pushing carefully down on two solid peddles – slowly but surely moving his carriage of passengers out of sight.

Walking free from stares and curious glances I slow my gait, able to look around and to observe unselfconsciously. It is a rare luxury from a self-imposed paranoia; I am never invisible – there will always be someone studying my weird clothes, strange style, blonde hair. Similarly, it is rare that there is space to see the ground around; free from other bodies, free from cars, bikes or hustling movement. Walking down the wide lane, I breathe through the warm breeze and let myself relax.

A friend stands on the corner and greets me with a flashing smile. One of the beautifully intelligent young women who was in the Soma Home last year. She looks sophisticated and fashionable and lifts my happy heart with a warm hug. She is waiting for her driving instructor as her driving test is on Monday. I wish her well, and continue on my path with my own wide smile settling deep inside.

I am on my way to teach yoga to her prodigies; to the little girls and young women in the Soma Home which is situated just around the next corner. Ever since my first visit to the Soma Home I have had a sincere affiliation with the girls – they remind me of myself living in a boarding school year after year of my childhood. Some love yoga, acro-yoga, partner yoga. Other prefer the documentaries or perhaps just sleeping; as it is their weekend after all. They are incredible girls – incredible because they are so 'normal'. With mothers who are working in the sex trade, fathers who either support their wives work or who were their customers. With baby brothers and little sisters possibly with HIV, possibly not. Others have parents but are at risk from being sold or mistreated. But as I said, the girls are great. And as I hear the precious sound of my footsteps lead towards more smiles, laughter and far and present memories, I know they will achieve whatever their young minds can conceive.