Street Fairy

Her name is Chunana. I sing it to her: 'Chu-na-na, Chua-na-na' as she strides confidently by my side, trying to keep pace with legs twice the length and twice the width of hers. The darkness is providing a thick blanket of camouflage to the figures of the day. Tonight Chunana is helping me to find the half naked lady. The woman appears from the shadows of the pile of bricks, curled into a bony ball on the ground. Chunana waits while I give leave a hot cup of chai by the side of the ball of bones and then looks up expectantly. We return to the chai wallah and stand silently while he stirs and pours and juggles the pots of water, milk, tea and sugar. Once holding the little clay pot of chai between her hands, she maneuvers it from one finger to another, as the thin edges quickly absorb the heat of the thick bubbling liquid. We sit on a cool stone step, waiting for the heat of the chai to fade enough for either her mouth to swallow or young fingers to carry. I speak clumsy words of Bangla: muk, nak, pa, pet; I mumble as she smiles widely in apparent comprehension: mouth, nose, leg, foot. Running out of common vocabulary we sit, watching the other occupants of the street – the old men, the visiting youths, the volunteers and transit tourists.

Her world is long and narrow; beginning with the chai stalls, ending with the families cardboard homes and stolen bricks, interspersed with hostels from a golden age long since faded. Little Chunana finds her own entertainment. She follows the vendors filling the lane with relics of an India far removed from the reality. A man of flutes spins his selection from a musical bamboo tree towering above her head – a multistory dimension for little Chunana. 'India Game' stands with his plywood board of semi-deflated balloons and melted candle, as he half-heartedly tries to coax tourists for a 'one rupee a shot' but ends up with a crowd of jean clad, gelled haired skinny Indian boys.

Forever jumping and skipping and running and smiling, she has one pair of red faded shorts, a red and white sleeveless shirt and a blue and white checked school dress, without a zip, and a filthy thin navy jumper. Recently she has acquired a pair of pink flip flops, which have a piece of threat coaxing the plastic thong through the plastic sole. During the night she wears all of her wardrobe simultaneously, and her change of outfits suggests a place where her clothes are kept and perhaps even a mother-figure who rotates the clothes. Safely snuggled into her family – or someone else's – among the crowd of hardened women and their collective brood of skinhead children.

Chunana knows everyone who lives here; for this is her home; in the magical mystical land of Sudder Street. Where boys sniff glue behind yellow Ambassador taxis' and older brothers and uncles congregate next to a corner gutter, injecting potions into their legs. Where Nigerian footballers walk four a breast down the street, calling out to waiting waiters and galloping past skinny chai wallah's and the cotton clad skeletons of rickshaw pullers. But to little Chunana, Sudder Street is a fairy tale world of colourful strangers forever influx: Arriving and departing, coming and going with the pulsating beat of life of travelers. An informal congregation of the new-age lonely planet explorers and the next generation of undisclosed missionaries with an audience of determined street mothers and local amputees. The audience gathers to glean a note or just some coins from the colourful creatures dressed in western clothes – neo-Indian style. For Chunana these strangers seem to be imported to create her school of the street, bringing her knowledge of far away lands and cultures. Words of Spanish, French and English pass through her curling ears, while she is continuously searching for new faces to play with, or just two long monkey arms from which to swing. She only asks for food when she has sat on your lap or hugged your legs at least once before, and when she does usually no words but just points.

Most evenings she just darts through the feet searching out the friendly or familiar faces. Grabbing hands with her tiny fingers and swinging the giant arms above her shaved head. She brings her gift of her presence which leaves her holding bites of egg rolls, or a handful of noodles: tit-bits of 'treats' which foreigners think she may like. Always alone, apart from a brief interaction with a family member or adult who will walk by and snatch whatever 'treat' she holds. When given a whole roti or parantha, she will surreptitiously pick at it, pretending to be eating, but actually saving. Many evenings of quiet observation have still left me unsure of whether this is her duty to her three brothers and sisters, or her protection to save her from a beating from others who are older, wiser and more desperate than little Chunana.

Tonight Chunana skipped past me, wearing a reindeer hat. Bringing a grin to my face as she sent her arms flapping by her sides, skimming through the air. To the inexperienced eye, so free and so full of silent giggles. She was too preoccupied to care to spot me and hopped onto the cracked and crooked pavement spontaneously squatting to pee. Pulling down her shorts to reveal her hidden prize of a shiny red pomegranate which she held between her two hands, as if she were holding the secret to Never Neverland.