Thousand-Dollar Love Potato

"In your mind it's reconstituted, in my mind it's a full life-size potato," clarifies John. "You can't just have the old potatoes sitting around while you make it into a bigger one."

John, with jaundice, lies in bed sighing frequently and staring at the ceiling with dull ivory-yellow eyes. His latest fantasy involves embracing an impressively-oversized (not life-size, dummy!), boiled tuber, slathered with vegan butter. In his daydream his arms sink gently into the vast vegetable's soft flesh and distend the top portion pleasantly toward his mouth. If I can fulfill his all-consuming desire to couple with a potato John is willing to pay me US $1000. He knows how to motivate. Creating the super-sized potato shouldn't be too problematic I reason. Just peel and boil hundreds of the little white guys and then mold them into a giant configuration. The potatoes forming the core should stay reasonably warm as others are appended. Once sufficiently large, the mass could be sculpted smooth with a knife. Dark spots, denoting where the eyes had been, could also be fashioned with minimal fuss. It's the vegan butter that's the killer.

The night before he had offered a US $20,000 bounty if I could deliver three slices of wheat toast covered with vegan butter (a recurring theme), then topped with three slices of veggie lunch meats and one-half avocado each. The stickler is that it has to be delivered by midnight. I am able to convince him to extend the deadline to noon the following day, but quickly resign myself to the fact that, even with the additional half day, making good on the meal is an impossibility. There simply isn't enough flight time. Even the supersonic Concorde, now retired, would have had difficulty traversing the distance necessary to deliver the required ingredients from the States. The bent-nosed bird would undoubtedly have had to refuel at intermediate points burning up additional precious minutes.

Nothing, but advanced yogic power is going to suffice. I decide to meditate for one hour (I was going to anyway) and see if I can acquire the ability to teleport the materials or simply materialize them from the ether. Alas, none of the requisite siddhis are forthcoming and I find my attention drifting to my stomach as images of vegan mock-meats parade mockingly about. A soy dog leads the procession pumping a mini-baton in time to my heart beat.

Incredibly, a few days after our food for thought, we learn that there is a Whole Foods store in Delhi. The self-same grocery chain from the US that carries every vegan goodie under the Sun. Unfortunately, neither of us has the courage to visit the far-off market. The fear is finding it devoid of our lusted-after foodstuffs will be too much for our frail frames to bear. So we continue to lie about and dream ourselves to satiation.

Service Hero

"I'm being selfless nowadays."

"That's awfully charitable of you."

"What can I say--it's just the nature of my Slum Yatra. Service, service, service! Always thinking of the little guy, and his little family."

"My, what a big heart you have!"

"Yes, I'm told it's as big as my fist."

From India to Pakistan with Love

One thing that has become abundantly clear in our efforts to collect letters of goodwill for Pakistan from the students of India is that almost everybody struggles with rendering two hands joined in a shake. Inevitably extra fingers appear, the thumb assumes the position of the pinky, or fingers are shifted so far in one direction or the other that they no longer connect to the hand. It's not for a want of trying that these injustices to the anatomy occur. It's a common sight to see a student adjoining her own hands to serve as inspiration for her artwork. This, of course, is part of the problem as it takes two right or left hands to properly shake, and as many medical marvels exist on the Sub-continent still none have been reported with paired, properly-posable opposable thumbs.

Interestingly, one of Bollywood's leading men, Hritik Roshan, sports a well-formed sixth finger on one hand. This bit of trivia can become a incredible impediment to the carefree enjoyment of his movies. It becomes an obsession to spot the extra appendage. Where is that finger? It is hard for me to imagine a Hollywood star similarly endowed with an eleventh digit (eligit?) that wouldn't elect to have it surgically removed. One can only imagine that somehow the offensive finger would eventually find its way onto E-Bay and make the news-cycle on Yahoo's home page.

Another tangential link between the muscle-bound star and the letter writing campaign is his starring in 2004's Lakshya L.O.C. Kargil. Kargil was the last sight of sustained combat between Pakistan and India in 1999. In the film Roshan plays an aimless high-schooler who finds his focus once he joins the Indian army and is called into active duty. His determination helps his comrades to reclaim an imposing peak from which the Pakistanis are shelling the road below with impunity. Now in 2005 a letter is being recruited from a child who lost his father in the same skirmish. A letter of friendship to Pakistan.

For all the twisted twining of hands the children produce, there are heaps of heartfelt missive being generated. More than once I have been moved to tears in the wee hours of night as I read through the piles of messages from the children of India addressed to their Pakistani peers. Usually my emotional response was less from the writing itself than the sentiment behind it that could be intuited. Three wars and endless exposure to patriotic propaganda not withstanding, the children are still eager and willing to extend hands of genuine friendliness across the dusty, then mountainous border. Lacking the hardened perspectives and grudges of their forbearers the children are eager to get on with a new spirit of camaraderie. A small sampling of the thousands of letters collected from just a few schools in Delhi is reproduced below. The same will appear on Gandhi's birthday (this coming Sunday) in the Times of India, but you read it here first (shhhhhhhhh!).

St. Columba’s School, New Delhi

Dear Friends!

I have great love for you all, and would like our countries to join hands, so that we become one big happy family. I have always wanted to visit your country but due to the political conditions this dream of ours has become impossible. My father is in the ARMY and I know how bad the conditions are in Kashmir. The misery has in some way affected everyone. I don’t know how you feel about all this, but this is really serious and something must be done. You and me, we are the future and all this comes down to us. It is our friendship which will solve this grave issue. There is an immense desire in our hearts to know you, understand you, love you, but all we can do right now is hope! Let us create a bond of friendship which can be cherished and made stronger every second.

Let’s join hands,

Anchit Malhotra — your wannabe friend (from India!)

* * *

St. Columba’s School, New Delhi

12/8/05

To our Pakistani counterparts,

From my heart and soul, I confess that I have always wanted to write this letter. For so many decades, our nations have had a relation that not many our proud of.

Indeed it is the politicians who have to build bridges of friendship on the political level. But harmony and peace has to start with us, the citizens of tomorrow. We have to learn from the mistakes of the leaders of the past and help save this love from the evil elements who have decided to sacrifice their lives for the so called ‘enemity’ between us. But there has never been any enmity between the people of these two sister nations.

God bless you all!

Siddharth Pandey, 12 E

* * *

St. Columba’s School, New Delhi
Class 12, Sec D

12th August 2005

To my brothers and sisters in Pakistan,

This is not a paper with ink scribbled on it, but a paper with my feelings and love. Whenever I hear about the wars with Pakistan the first question which comes to my mind is that are we different. The people living in both the countries are the creation of God and if God has made no distinction in us then why are we destroying these wonderful creations of God. Why are we flooded with such negative feeling about one another. Why don’t we forgive and thank God for the day he has bestowed upon us and the happiness he has showered upon us. I ask these people, why are there these walls seperating mankind. These are human made barriers that not only divide us but also divide our love and the urge to care. Then come let us join our hands and live together in peace and happiness, in harmony and brotherhood sharing all our joys of life. Let us make this earth a place of joy and happiness.

With Love,

Gaurav Chandiwala

* * *

St. Columba’s School, New Delhi
Class 12, Sec D

Dear Friends,

When I was young I got into a fight with one of my friends in the neighborhood. That evening my mother told me that I should treat everyone with respect and I was forbidden to fight with or verbally abuse anyone. Then I wondered why there was so much bitterness between us and our neighbors on the other side of the border. I asked my family members and none of them gave me a satisfactory answer. This is when I realised how futile and aimless our fighting was. This was a long time ago and my belief in peace between our two nations has only strenghtened. And this view is being echoed by many of my friends here. It is only because of a few people who think that we are mortal enemies that our two great nations are against each other. However, we the youth have a choice. We can either keep fighting and hate each other or we can live in peace and work towards our mutual prosperity.

Chinmay Garde

* * *

St. Columba’s School, New Delhi
Class 12, Sec D

To whomsoever it may concern,

I am a 16 year old boy from New Delhi, India. I believe we all are not only citizens of our country but are citizens of the world. We are all under the same sun and sky and have the same dirt under our feet. I believe that if we can put aside our past grudges and petty differences we will realise that we are all one, and the the humanity in each one of us binds us together to a common goal of peace, prosperity and oneness of all life. We should keep safe our own personal religious beliefs but we should not use them as an excuse to create animosity between our nations. Instead we should work together for the future of our nations, for the people of the world, and for the growth of human civilisation.

With due regards,

Leon Lu

* * *

St. Columba’s School, New Delhi

12 . 8 . 05

Dear Friend,

It has been a number of years since our countries have been enemies, but I feel that it is high time we be friends now. We are going to celebrate our independence day on the 15th of August. 3 days from now. We were given sweets in school as a treat.

Imagine if we had been one what a strong cricket and hockey team we would have made. We would have been unbeatables. Though I have never been in Pakistan I know that the situation there is just like India. Guests are treated as gods and taken well care of. I heard that when the Indian team reached Pakistan you treated them with great care. I have heard that there are many delicious Pakistani dishes but I haven’t tasted them yet. I hope that you were also honored when you came to India. I would truly like to have peace between our 2 nations.

Yours faithfully,

Aman Gupta

* * *

DPS Mathura Road
Class XII

Hello Friends,

We are people like you and it would be a great pleasure to be your friends. I’d like to have a piece of peace and I’m sure you’de like to have it too!! And trust me its gonna be full of fun and laughter.

I believe in spreading smiles, and then too big ones. So keep smiling and spreading the message. We are the future of the world and only peace can make the future the best.

Take care. Live peacefully. All the best in life.

Loads of love and luck,

Nidhi Jain

* * *

DPS Mathura Road

Dear Friend,

How are u? I hope u know me. Hey, I was ur friend in our last janam. Just kidding. How’s everything? I hope it’s fine. We don’t know each other, but I hope we can create a bond of love between us.

I hope this bond of love between Indian & Pakistan remains forever. United we stand & divided we fall. So we should stand together and work for the development of our countries. The new generation has to make an effort to end the wars which have created hatred among us. Love knows no boundaries and the bond of love created by us should also have no boundaries.

By the way, a belated Happy Independence Day and also Friendship Day.

Lots of Love,

Garima

* * *

DPS Mathura Road

Dearest Friend,

This, my special letter, is for the most special person of my life.

Yesterday I was going thru the cultural book and I was left breathless to see how much this rivalry has cost us down the ages. It seems as if it has been ages since this ice last melted. My eyes damped as I read how millions of people got killed during the partition of the 2 nations. And the result? Years of hatred, 3 wars and endless waiting in the hearts of people on both sides of the border.

We cannot afford to go on like this forever and have to stop it now or never. I render my hand of friendship toward you for the above cause. I am 13 years old and a ‘reading buzz’ residing in Delhi. I believe this letter ‘will’ make a difference!

Anonymous

* * *

DPS Mathura Road
New Delhi

My dear Friend,

I am Olivia from Manipur. You know Manipur? I think so. It’s in the Northeastern side of India. Our state is terribly underdeveloped — there are resources but they are not utilized. There is gross unemployment. This results in drug addition, and many, many social crimes.

You may think this does not relate to us. But yes, a very big YES. Our country and your country spend a lot on wars and security arrangements. So the Govt. is not able to set up industries or develop infrastructure or give good education to the citizens of our state. We are suffering, you are suffering. And you know we will not suffer if we walk together HAND in HAND.

Peace be with us,

Olivia

* * *

DPS Mathura Road
Standard X - F
New Delhi

Mother please forgive them
For they know not what they do
Looking back in history’s books
It seems it’s nothing new
Oh! Let my mother live

Father, of all creation
I think we’re all going wrond
The course we’re taking
seems to be breaking
And it won’t take too long

Children of the future
Watching empires fall
Madness the cup they drink from
Self destruction the toll

I had a vision, I saw the world burn
And the seas had turned red
The sun had fallen, the final curtain
In the land of the dead

Mother, please show the children
Before it’s too late
To fight each other, there’s no winning
We must all fight the hate

Bring the Peace,

— Vigyat

* * *

DPS Mathura Road
VII - B
New Delhi

Boundaries divide the land
Humans share the land
Can you hear my call
My heart sings the song
Sweet, loving and of friendship
Bitter division of 1947
Pangs of suffering and disaster
Oh! my friend lets unite
My Lata and your Zafar
Sing the tune of one song
My countrymen think the same
As your people do of us
My temple and your mosque
Teach the message of
Love, peace and brotherhood
Then why are we waiting
Let’s share hands
Become friends forever

— Kritaka Anand

* * *

DPS Mathura Road
VII - B
New Delhi

Plant a seed of peace
Water it with love and happiness
Don’t let evil in the world destroy it
Keep away tresspassers
Scare away the birds of prey
Harvest peace
Now a beautiful Blue flower
of peace, joy and love becomes:

P-oplars swaying in the cool breeze of Spring
E-vergreens shaking the snow off their bushy branches
A-spens tall and straight with gnarled bark and sturdy limbs
C-ranapple trees leaving blossoms and sour fruits
E-lm trees whispering PEACE

Anything war can do, peace can do better. War is expensive, peace is priceless.

— Parul Sabharwas

* * *

DPS Mathura Road
Standard VIII
New Delhi

Let there be peace shared among us
Let there be peace in our eyes
May peace now sweep the nations
Cause us, O Lord, to arise
Give us a fresh understanding
Of neighborly peace that is real
Let there be peace shared among us
Let there be peace

— Nikhil Gupta

* * *

Jornal Parival Memorial
Senior Secondary School for the Blind
New Delhi

We all are one. Whether we are Hindu, Muslim, or Christian — we all have red blood. We should not fight with each other. If there comes any difficulty, we should try to solve it peacefully, and we should believe in humanity because humanity is the best religion in the world. Though man has divided God — some call him “Rama,” others “Allah” and “Jesus” — they are all one. We should not believe in the different names of God but in one word — God. We should remember God in our joys and sorrows. If we will help ourselves, then God will help us forever. We should never lose our faith in God. Sometimes, when man feels troubled, he says, “Oh God, help me!” But when man becomes happy he does not remember God. We should remember God in all situations and this is the message I want to convey to my friends.

Kuldeep, Age 16

An Urchin, a Clown, Three Guards, a Hunchback, Two Police and a Memory

It's the same waifish urchin I met on my first day in Delhi. Her tight braids stick out Pippi Longstocking style and her complexion is whitish and shimmering--the symptoms of a heat rash. Reena's blank stare indicates she hasn't recognized me, so she is a bit startled when I address her by name. I continue filling out my visa application for Pakistan, while she performs her perfunctory gymnastic walk-overs. Back and forth she goes like a indecisive slinky.

It's interesting how the street kids here have a distinct modus operendi from those in Ahmedabad for attracting tips (or begging). Reena isn't the only girl on the streets of the capital doing the very same gymnastic routine. Sometimes the child will be accompanied by a parent or sibling who will beat out a monotonous rhythm on a simple drum. Dum-thuka-thuka-dum-thuka-thuka. Other times a steel hoop, maybe ten inches in diameter, is passed in every possible way over the body, or in the absence of a hoop, the hands are joined and the arms are used instead. There is also a sizable group of boys working the city that will paint outrageous handlebar mustaches on their faces and wear caps equipped with a ball on a string. One will approach his tourist prey using a pimp walk and undulating neck motion to send the ball whirling about his head. First one hand is held to an ear and then the other hand to the other ear, in what is likely a rough approximation of a rough approximation of a Michael Jackson dance. Virtually all the children--whether dancing, flip-flopping or head twirling--do their routines unsmilingly, the outcome of mind-numbing repetition and repeated rejections. In Ahmedabad the scene is far less creative but equally grim. The child beggar will haul out a pot-bellied younger sibling sans clothes, and then make a pained face while bringing joined fingers to the mouth again and again. The appeal is simple and direct if not entertaining: "I'm hungry. My baby brother's hungry and sick. Give us money."

In the hopes of engaging Reena's wonderment I take a break from my application to pull my thumb off, pop my index finger against my cheek and slap my hands together to form a finger ballerina. Reena doesn't quite know what to make of my display of digital dexterity, but gradually a cautious smile emerges. The half smile of the Reena Lisa. I shake my hand, palm upward, in front of her, and ask for a paisa. "Sirf ek paisa, memsahib! Only one paisa, maam!" I plead.

The nearby machine-gun-toting embassy guards are all teeth-bearing grins watching the interaction. They leave their sandbagged booth to get a better view and I am able to pick up snippets of their commentary.

"I'm sure he spoke Hindi to her. He spoke in Hindi when he asked for my pen too."

"Did you see the girl's face?"

"What country do you think he is from? Germany?"

"He is like a clown."

Against my better judgment I pull a couple 2 rupee coins from my wallet and balance them on my elbow. I feel that the offering is justified by the one-girl circus I have been treated to--even though I've seen and paid for it once before. As in my first meeting with her I snap my hand down catching the coins in my palm and present the prize before her. She clearly remembers me now and her smile grows to full strength.

A few hours later I am rattling, elbows to knees, in the back of a rickshaw headed for John's and my hole in the wall in the Pahar Ganj. When the vehicle slows at a crowded intersection, one of the resident beggars that has staked out the area catches sight of my white skin and sends a member of her crew scuttling after my vehicle. A dramatically hunchbacked girl in her teens appears alongside the rickshaw and sticks her hand in for spare change. I shake her hand and ask her name. Her face lights up hearing me speak Hindi and I imagine a barely detectable blush. "Anita," she says quietly.

"Mera naam Mark hai. Main America se hoon," I say. All of my Hindi is of the see-spot-run variety, but it's still fun to be successfully communicating in another tongue.

"Kyaa?"

"Mark," I repeat.

"Aapkaa naam kyaa hai?" she asks confused. The rickshawala repeats my name so softly that I can't make it out, but Anita immediately picks it up. "Mark," she says satisfactorily. She has completely forgotten her original mission now and is clearly enjoying our elementary dialog. I am trying to formulate a sentence to inquire about the condition of her back when I hear the roar of an engine from behind. Anita's companions scream and scatter in all directions into the narrow spaces between the jam packed trucks, cars and two wheelers. Anita turns with horror before dashing just inches ahead of a growling yellow Enfield carrying two policemen. They shake their fists and shout threats after her as their motorcycle lurches in the slivery cracks between traffic. The rickshawala grins at the spectacle and looks to me to see if I am enjoying the show as well. I am feeling slightly nauseous and look away.

Six months earlier at a small train station somewhere between Mumbai and Ahmedabad a policeman had crept up behind two boys that approached the train for alms and cracked one on the skull full force with his fat lathi. The sickening thud echoes across the vast expanse of time and distance and reverberates anew in my mind. I remember how the boys ran in panic, the injured one slowed by having to hold his head wound. A neighboring witness smiled then too.

Raj's Believe It or Not

The brothers' outfits and plump profiles brings to mind Tweedle Dum and Tweedle Dee from Disney's version of Alice in Wonderland. They sit back in their chairs with legs extended in totality at ninty degrees. Their Jack Sprat of a dad verbally spars with the embassy offical one station over from me, while their fleshy mother loiters to his flank. Son #1 looks idly about the office and away from his brother who sings with intensity to no one in particular. I make eye contact with the singing brother and acknowledge his efforts with an upraised hand to show appreciation in a humerous fashion. He makes a quarter turn away from me and continues his melody without pause. His mother looks over and smiles at me and I take the opportunity to ask her what song her son is singing.

"I don't know," she confesses, "I can't understand the words."

"It's not in Hindi?" I ask, confused.

"No. No one knows what language he is using or what he sings. He started doing this when he was three and does it for a number of hours each day," she explains, "We cannot stop him once he starts." I listen more closely. His vocalization sounds less like singing and more like chanting. The diction is far too clear to be the idle babble of a bored bacche. I quickly convince myself that the child is living proof of reincarnation--a once dedicated priest unconsciously engaging in a previous lifetime's daily rites.

The father looks back at his child and shakes his head with the resignation of one who has told the child to stop his chatter right this minute one thousand times before to no avail. That his child's pecularity has elicited my attention seems to rankle him. I am tempted to ask for the family's address to procure an audio tape of the boy for investigation, but the father's chagrin gives me pause.

Someday the CIA or CSI will abduct the child and keep him locked in a wire-mesh cage in a military labratory basement. His head will be shaved and crowned with wires like angel hair spaghetti running to oscilloscopes and various recording instruments. Over time the boy will befriend the ape in the neighboring cage and charm the animal with his daily chanting. The ape, the priest's corrupt accountant in his last incarnation, will free the boy via the timely deposit of sedatives in the lab technician's coffee and some deft sleight of hand (paw?) involving the latter's fat loop of keys. At some point during their escape the ape will be shot dead by agents attempting to regain possesion of the child. In the process the boy's sordid treatment will be brought to the attention of the press and in a protracted, high-profile court case he will finally be restored to his parent's custody. Bollywood will buy the rights to the story and infuse the drama with innumerable dance sequences shot in the Alps.

For now, his parents are none the wiser to what the future holds, and Dad wishes his boy attracted less attention as a curiousity. For me the scene is simply my daily dose of the weird and wonderful panarama that makes India, India.

Deus Ex Machina

I think it was Eric who told me that mosquitoes can't fly in any wind in excess of 7 mph, hence ceiling fans set on high are generally sufficient to hold them at bay. So it doesn't bode well when John and I turn the water heaters on in both bathrooms concurrently (unintentionally) and blow a fuse. As soon as the ceiling fans wind down the heat descends like a thick blanket and the mosquitos come out to party. With no air flow at all to contend with, what was once a no-fly zone is now a mosquito air show complete with two juicy targets. We call the utility company and they promise to send someone within the hour. After two hours of waving the mosquitoes off in the steamy confines of our flat I decide to try my luck out front where the trees rustle tantalizingly in the sluggish night breeze.

As I lay prone on the slate bench in front of Swarg I take stock of my bodily complaints starting with the sole of my right foot. It sports an open wound where two days previous a thorn gained unwanted admission. This infraction is just superior to a deep bruise that feels like a rock in the soul of my sole. Moving up my right leg something is amiss with the ligaments just behind my knee. If I flex my leg to relieve the build-up of tension something sproings like a guitar string that has been bent beyond the limits of the fret board and then snaps back into place. It radiates a wave of pain that crashes on the shores of sciatica, aka Mr. Chronic Companion. He holds sway, as is the norm, over the upper half of my right leg, my buttocks and lower, lower back. My posterior competes for attention as it pulsates in objection at all points where bone meets rock. My left leg aches dully where my varicose veins have returned to prominence. Chest and arms are just dandy save for the intermittent mosquito bite and dull ache in my hyper-extended right elbow. My neck is stiff from using what theoretically was a one-time cottony pillow, but is now quite solid. A throbbing headache threatens to dislodge my dangerously bulging eyes from their sockets. What little wisps of hair remain atop my skull itch mercilessly. I am incredibly thin and simultaneously fat, having lost all muscle mass months earlier. I am on day six of non-stop diarrhea combined with severe constipation. What goes in comes out explosively.

Darshan and Pooja's father brings his battle with insomnia outside and mutters something that sounds like amazement to find me lying in his preferred spot. He lights a cigarette, lays down on a bench some ten yards distant and sends his doppelganger in the form of a dense cloud of body odor to hover over me. My mind immediately goes to his wife and her frozen frown. Is there a connection between her state of unhappiness and olfactory offense?

In a pool of sweaty self-pity I take in the ominous edifice of Swarg looming above me. Years before, late at night a distraught resident had launched himself from the rooftop terrace and came to a sudden end where I now rest. I empathize with the mental and physical anguish that drove him to this one final act of desperation. When identification with one's pain is so complete that the spaces between seem only to connect the hurting parts then it must not seem so radical to want to terminate the host. How many in the slums retire nightly to unforgiving hard beds with pain lists far in excess to my own? Day in and day out spent collecting bits of paper, plastic and metal for recycling from fly-infested, roadside dumping grounds in the intense heat only to return home to quarreling roommates, a meager meal, goat droppings, endless flies, cockroaches the size of mice, and mice of all manner.

On a plane adjacent to our waking consciousness is a grinding, rusty, dirty, diseased, whirling nightmare of a juggernaut that causes physical, or mental harm wherever it happens to encroach upon our twin dreams of bodily immortality and perpetual happiness. In India the margin between this terrible machine and daily existence is exceedingly small and occasionally one may even catch a brief glimpse of its awful form when someone strays too near and is sent tumbling from their scooter onto the concrete or is engulfed forever in the waters of a flash flood. The ill-mannered machine is a Rube Goldberg creation gone awry, replete with flailing tentacles (ala Doc Octopus) wielding rough saws, needles, thorns, germs and abuse of every sort. Its wake is evidenced everywhere by missing limbs, massive scars, ugly welts and lifeless eyes.

In America the juggernaut is pushed as far into the shadows as possible--so much so that it is possible to believe that it might one day be utterly banished from the realm of the civilized. The old and infirm are tucked away in the far corners of sprawling hospitals or closeted in retirement homes to the numbing strains of Muzak. The dead and ugly are nipped, tucked, drained, stuffed and dyed for public presentation. The abused and addicted are counseled in secret societies that periodically lend the graduates to the talk-show circuit as titillating reminders of the dark side. Sharp edges, unmarked holes and things that might choke are legislated into oblivion. We have constructed high palace walls around our Buddha in an effort to hide his eyes from the frailties of fleshy existence. When someone near and dear strays from the palace grounds and is laid low by the juggernaut it always comes as a shock. Studies are ordered as to where the breach occurred and the walls are reinforced and doubled in height to prevent a repeat occurrence. PIlls are popped and injections given whenever pain somehow manages to slip past the guards. But the truth is that the macabre enemy we fend against is encoded in our DNA, so no matter how impregnable we make our palaces of pleasure it is always lurking within our bodies and minds. One curious advantage to the raw pain and poverty in the slums and villages of India is that this reality is laid bare, making it futile for its residents to invest in castles of sand. In spite of the pain, life goes on and doesn't. Life and pleasure are only as real as death and pain. The coin is balanced on its edge with both faces immediately evident. Christ allowed himself to be ground down by the machine at the various stations of the cross only to show the higher possibilities of selfless transcendence. But his body and mind were ground down--reduced to a threadbare, tatter of flesh draped from the cross, momentarily gripped by doubt. In spite of this His spirit persisted and was ultimately emancipated from its corporeal confines. We aren't the body or mind, nor are we their pain and pleasure. Even as the body breathes its last and the mind stills, we go on. Don't believe me? Try it now!

Is it possible that the gruesome machine that ruthlessly shatters bones and claims lives may, in fact, be one rickety, hideous chariot to liberation? If we accept, or even embrace this cruel contraption as we do our imagined pleasure--if we view it without prejudice--perhaps we create the possibility of transcending the dualistic paradigm altogether. We are afforded the opportunity to see things in their totality and the effortless beauty therein. But to do so we must willfully loosen our death grip on the padded, pampered and privileged lives hard won through incarnations of aversion to pain. We must, in fact, give up our attachment to life, and fear of death. Perversely this offers the potential, then, of our being able to live (and die) fully, without reservation. Our pain is a bedeviling reminder of the suffering of our fellows and prods us to venture forth, while our pleasure lures us into tightly circumscribed concepts of self--we simply are encouraged to secure more. Pleasure opens our mouths (More! More!) while pain can pry open our eyes and pierce our hearts. Derek used to joke that my sciatica had sensitized me to the sitting pain felt by various roadside chipmunks and squirrels on rough perches: "If only I could fashion little butt cushions for them all!" Time and time again on my stay here in India I find my aches and pains to be immediately translated to concern for others with more intense inflictions of the same. When the sun scorches my feet, I find my attention flowing out to the shoeless street children that beg at the smog-choked intersections.

The American traveller in India is seduced into believing that the protective (albeit illusory) bubble of home has accompanied them abroad. The dis-ease of the Indian masses is a Discovery channel spectacle that can be enjoyed from the safety of our portable embassy. We are privileged to enjoy one standard of life and they are unfortunate to suffer through a wholly lesser experience. Upwardly mobile Indians and the neaveaux middle-class are furiously engaged in bubble building of their own. Cars are being built bigger and higher to avoid making eye-contact with the ragged rickshaws and ubiquitous beggars. Daisy-chains of AC are strung from home, to car, to office to turn the oppressive heat into breezy cool. Dams are erected, rivers redirected and water filtered, effectively negating any and all worries about floods and the universally be-spoiled waterways.

A piercing horn punches my body upright. Bright headlights seer my distended eyes setting my optic nerve afire. The electricians have arrived and shout for confirmation of the correct address from their van. Darshan's father yells back at them and a party of three disembarks. The eldest of the trio, probably in his late twenties, twists a single wire in an outside box and then asks to be escorted up to our flat. His two companions follow and comment with wonder about finding a whitie in the Jain-only society. With my sheet wrapped around my body I approximate the look of a sadhu. I open the door to find everything electrical in the flat in full animation. Wire Twister and Co. push past me to poke their heads into my bedroom. So this is how a foreigner lives they cluck with disapproval. John, also in mummy wrap, comes out to survey the trio. The youngest pushes open the bathroom door and looks to John for permission to relieve himself. A few minutes later he emerges along with the stench of his deposit. Our society has no running water after midnight for reasons no one can explain to my satisfaction. After the crew exits John grabs one of the three buckets of water he keeps stockpiled in the bathroom and dumps it down the bowl. The toilet gurgles with contentment.

I lay down on my fan-cooled bed and become aware of the fact my headache is twice as sharp as before. It is to remain like this for the next two days. At its worst I just want an out of my garment of pain, incapable of translating the agony into liberating energy. I long for an emergency rip cord to pull that will send me soaring into the airy blue a safe distance from the flaming arc of my corrupted corpse. In less intense moments I make vows to relieve the suffering of the street lifers in new creative ways; vows I will comfortably forget once I extricate myself from the machine.

BeastMaster Rahul

"Is it getting hot in here or did someone just fart?" I ask no one in particular.

"I just opened the dahl," offers Priyamvatha. Rahul rocks spasmodically with contagious laughter.

"I love the options presented," he gasps, "It's either getting hot in here, or someone farted."

"Or someone opened the dahl. It's the perfect ephemism" I point out between staccato snickers. The three of us are reduced to howling, contractions of stomach muscle writhing on the futons in the IndiCorps meeting room. No service work is possible in this condition. Sadly, Priyamvatha had selflessly prepared the dahl with my dysfunctional digestion in mind and now I have artlessly compared its odor to the passing of gas. But it is impossible to avoid the fact: the dahl does smell like vegan flatulence--a curious woodsy aroma with a troubling undercurrent of bean.

Later at lunch, over the maligned dahl, Rahul becomes philosophical about the application of animals married to labour-saving devices. He envisions a village where a large turning mechanism is powered by water buffalo and villagers can "plug" various components in to do work like clothes washing or flour grinding. After lunch a walk to the juice stand past a street project allows Rahul to expand on his animal plan. "You see, there is no reason for these people to be breaking up the road with pick axes. Even with India's limited resources, better solutions could be found. Elephants could be outfitted with spiked shoes and led back and forth to do the same work in a fraction of the time." Rahul's invocation of Elephants in spiked heels brings to mind the scene from Fantasia of hippos in tutus. Not wanting to be left out of the fun I offer up my own scheme over a chilled juice cocktail.

"Snakes could be jerry-rigged with head shovels. Earth moving projects could simply take advantage of their natural tendency to slither about. There is simply no reason all that slithering should go to waste."

Rahul and Priyamvatha are amused, but not sold on my idea. I try again. "Bats could be outfitted with girdles of some sort such that when they discharge guano a small battery would be attached and be charged in the descent to the ground. Maybe it would power a small LED that would then alert people where not to step. Getting bats in diapers could be a challenge though." Again amusement, but no buyers.

On the way back to the office I jump in to help the street workers scoop dirt into wok-shaped bowls and then transfer the contents to a tractor-pulled wagon. Where are my shovel-equipped slitherers when you need them? As is usually the case in construction projects of this sort, migrant tribals have been employed. The women veil themselves when passing in my proximity in an attempt to maintain their modesty in the company of a ferengi (outsider). On construction sites in India, I have noticed time and time again that the women do more than their fair share of the labor. Not only do they help shovel, but they alone are charged with carrying the dirt atop their heads to the wagon while the men chat idly. This is true when bricks or stones need to be transported as well. Who needs Rahul's elephants when there are adamantine-necked women around? Rahul learns the workers are paid 70 rupees a day for their back-breaking labor and generously buys a round of cold drinks for all. When the one-man earth moving project that is me starts to flag in the intense heat, one of the men takes note and replaces my jumbo-sized wok with a junior-sized one. I'm no woman after all.

Flat 101: Backyard Revolution

In an effort to create a refuge of quiet John and I secure a flat in a relatively anonymous, yet centrally located area known as Mithakali in Ahmedabad. Ahmedabad is really a collection of forty or so villages that over a span of many years grew and spilled into one another. The majority of neighborhoods are known by their original village names and their former borders are hazily outlined by variations in architecture. Neighborhoods are further divided into collections of apartment buildings and bungalows known as societies. Nearly all apartment buildings have a plastered masonry wall around the perimeter (with or without barbed wire) and a watchman posted at night by the gate. These walls serve more as general guidelines for dogs and cows to recognize than human barriers, as children or five years can easily scale, or walk atop these singing Hindi filmy songs, no problem.

Our five-story building according to the sign out front is Swarg Flat of Maharaj society. In fact it is in Maharastra society (Maharaj is a painto) and is for Jains only, though no one seems terribly put out by the presence of two Americans of Christian descent. Once you enter the gate you proceed five yards to the front of the building and then walk under the building, through the parking lot to where the sole staircase and elevator are located. Each flight of stairs leads to a new level, so in essence there are five stories on each half of the building, but they are offset by a half floor--making ten possible elevations for living quarters. A placard just in front of the stairwell lists the owners of each flat. Ours is Shilpaben Sanghavi's flat 101. To get there requires ascending no fewer than three flights of stairs--an anomaly of the British numbering scheme I am told.

Unlocking a fat brass padlock and opening the door for the first time reveals an apartment of contemporary design covered with a year's worth of dust and paint peelings. Almost immediately I notice the property just behind our new building through the rear window. It features two attractively designed, albeit age-worn structures. One is a charming two story that appears to be of British-influenced design with a corrugated metal roof overhang that is oddly suggestive of a pagoda. Each floor is close to fifteen feet in height and a stairs runs on the outside of the building to a second story veranda that wraps around three sides of the building. Another steeply inclined stairs leads from the veranda to a terrace on the roof. It appears from the weathered paint that a three-toned blue scheme was used many years back with the windows and trim a darker shade than the walls. To its right a concrete gray, single story building makes an L-shape around a patio completely covered with dirt, dust and fallen leaves. With a barred portico and windows it has the appearance of a condemned jail from Alcatraz. In this light, it's not hard not to imagine the first building as the abandoned officer quarter's and watch tower. Both buildings are marked with lightening-like cracks frozen in time, uneasy reminders of the 2001 earthquake. Two trees decapitated mid-trunk provide the only greenery in the yard other than the few leaning interlopers of flora from neighboring yards.

The yard between the two buildings is completely be-spoiled with refuse. Plastic bags, crumpled paper, shredded foam, old underwear, tangled kite string, broken bricks, coconut husks, shattered glassware, and all manner of partially burnt debris creates a man-made, wall-to-wall ground cover. By comparison the inside of our flat looks almost clean, save for a heavy coating of dust, mold and cobwebs. We find buckets in both of the smallish bathrooms but no water. The upper-flat dwelling and English speaking Jinesh is recruited to address the water issue. He is a good inch over six lanky feet in height which is no small feat coming from a gene pool that favors the five foot five and below. Like so many college-aged male Ahmedabadis he wears the ideal camouflage for a botanical garden--an outrageously colorful floral shirt with earth-hued dress slacks. When he speaks his shoulders involuntarily churn the air and his head bobbles. "I and a Kinisha can a speak English, so whenever you need a help with anything, just a come up to the top floor and I can help you. Are you a thinking my English is a very good?" It turns out the water to the entire building goes off several times a day for reasons I still do not understand. Jinesh is the keeper of the key to the room where you flick some switches to turn the water on and must turn it back off after a half hour or it comes cascading from a pipe on the top of the roof to the parking area. With water at our disposal and a couple of rags it takes us less than three hours to remove the vast majority of mold from the walls and mop the floors. After we transfer the previous-occupant's seldom-used luggage to the master bedroom for storage the flat is looking ready for occupancy if not a little under-furnished. During our cleaning the Gujarati-speaking neighbors generously offer refreshment in the form of Aqua-guard water and limu pani (Indian lemonade, or literally, lemon water) and even an additional, albeit reluctant helper, Raju, who we later discover is a servant on loan from one of the upstairs flats.

Taking a break from cleaning in the ground-level parking area I am surrounded by the resident children of the flat, who tirelessly pepper me with questions in Gujarati despite my injunctions for them to speak in Hindi or English. A veiled girl glides into the Swarg compound on her Kinetic scooter and is clearly distracted by the odd interloper. She unwinds her dipurta, one twirl at a time, and shakes her hair out, ultimately revealing an attractive, now-smiling face of unblemished complexion. A small, solitary mole draws one's attention to the tip of her nose. In a cheesy seventies film the frame would be frozen here and her name, Kinisha, would be revealed left-to-right in flowery pink script. But this is real life Ahmedabad, 2005 and she asks, "Who are you?" in an impossible to reconcile accent. Introductions are made and I give the usual lowdown on the India trip. We're here for one year to do seva of any sort, yadda, yadda. What? Seva, say-vaah, service work. Oh, say-vaah! Kinisha takes me up to meet her affable father, mother and two younger siblings Nisharg and Malvi. John and I are soon adopted as older brothers. "Our" family begins to provide us with fresh water on a daily basis as we lack any filtering means in our flat, just as we lack a stove and refrigerator. Pillows, sheets and a fairly regular supply of limu pani are also provided for.

John's and my days are filled with meetings with the who's who of Ahmedabad's governing administration, or "corporation." (When people talk about the Corporation doing this or that here, it still sounds slightly ominous to my Americanized ears--a faceless antagonist in a John Grisham thriller.) At night we return home to re-cap the days events with Sanghavi's and then play games in the parking lot with the increasingly differentiable rug-rats of Swarg Flat. In no particular order there is Prahchi, the ultra-feminine waif that likes to bat her eyelashes Bollywood close-up style; Prahchi's older sister, Saloni, the reserved, super athlete; Saloni's best friend Bhoomi, the competitive, shy girl with large, transparent ears; Bhoomi's younger brother, Manan, the ultra-small daredevil with eyes set at slightly different angles; Manan's tormentor, Kevan, the devilish, television addict with preternaturally hairy arms and a penchant for throwing sucker punches; Kevan's sister, Reeti, the gesturing, mugging and posing wisp of a girl with a similar pugilistic disposition; Reeti's sparring partner, Rajwi, the attention-starved, cherub-faced youngster; Rajwi's brother, Raj, the perpetually smiling Campbell's Soup kid; Raj's best friend, Darshan, the disciplined, organizer of game time with the no-nonsense demeanor; Darshan's older sister Pooja, the equally intense child subject to bouts of unexpected giddiness.

As for the Sanghvi's, Kinisha at nineteen, considers herself to be far too old to be playing downstairs and spends her time either glued to her cell phone or watching horror serials, and very frequently does both in concert. Her sister Malvi, too, tends to shy away from the game arena, choosing instead to shuffle about their flat distracting herself with odd sections of newspaper, or sitting on the couch and staring off into space. While Kinisha has fleshed out into womanly proportions, Malvi, at sixteen, is still rail thin and opts for spectacles over contacts. Their younger brother Nisharg, like Malvi, is exceptionally thin, bespectacled and a bit on the shy side. In stark contrast to their leanness, both parents are amply padded. In India extra poundage is still, in the main, seen as a sign of health and/or wealth, although increasingly less so with the ideal of beauty peddled by Madison Avenue or its Mumbai equivalent. The father, whose girth relaxes in abundance over his belt line, is not at all too self-conscious to pad about their flat sans shirt. When Raj and Rajwi's father happens by the Sanghvi's door he is enthusiastically introduced to me as a fatty. I expect him to be at least be a wee bit disgruntled at being described as such, but he smiles his approval and even seems to puff his stomach out a bit more in confirmation. I am told he makes 20,000 rupees every day in the stock market. "He is a real fatty," Yashvant offers again. He probably outweighs his neighbor by a few kilograms, but no matter.

Yashvant, himself, makes a living on the ups and downs of the Sensex, India's stock exchange. You can retroactively read the stock market's moves in his body language: when it's down his shoulders droop and he squints his eyes as if suffering from abdominal pain; when it's up he bounces into the flat on tip toes and his face blossoms. Discovering how transparent his reactions to the market are he playfully tries to contraindicate the day's events, but is far too over dramatic to pull it off. He is quick to point out that he is a day trader and not an investor. The difference, he explains, is in the amount of money you have. "You can only be an investor if you have lots of money. I am only day trader." Over time I begin to suspect his claims of poverty are primarily for Kinisha's ears, who largely isn't convinced and continues to demand a personal computer for the home.

Dipikaben (aka Mrs. Sanghvi), like all the other women of Swarg flat, is in charge of managing the home. This includes food acquisition and preparation, general cleaning and frequent child wrangling. In many cases a naukar (Hindi for servant) is hired to help out or take over these duties completely. Two of the servants, Raju and Khushoo, spend nearly all their time at the apartment building and try to integrate themselves in the play time when they can sneak a few minutes here and there. Many of the Swarg men too, it seems, spend nearly all their time at home, which makes one wonder how cash flow is generated. Some will exit the building at odd times during the day saying something to the effect, "I think I will go into work now," and then return thirty minutes later looking especially unruffled. The effect is reminiscent of Hjalmar Ekdal in Ibsen's The Wild Duck dutifully working on his wholly imaginary "invention," except in this case the wife isn't earning any income either.

The property behind Swarg Flat continues to intrigue me. Enough so that I start to make inquiries and am told that the owner lives in America and that the dwellings have been vacant for many years save for a ghost. "How do you get back there?" I ask.

"No. You don't. It is haunted," Nisharg tells me.

"I know. It's okay. I'm just curious where the entrance is. Do you know how people got in?"

"It is from the other road. But you can't go back there, because there is a ghost."

The next morning I tell John of my plans and head out with a half-full Nalgene bottle and a broom. Darshan sees me leaving the building and shakes his hand, palm upward, to inquire where I am going. "For cleaning," I answer in Hindi leaving him in dumb bewilderment within the confines of Swarg. Around the corner and just down the street I locate the entrance to the ghost's compound--a large wrought iron gate, slightly askew on its hinges with bars clawing menacingly in both directions. The perfect gateway to a nightmare, but with the sun overhead pushing the temperature well in excess of 100 degrees it is hard to generate any anxiety buzz. The gate is locked so I sashay to the side and scale the wall, pause momentarily on top to assess loss of knee skin, and then plop to the parched earth on the other side. I walk past the lower of the two buildings where it appears the earth has been swept in the not too distant past and into the yard which is covered in rubbish. I make my way to the impressively tall two story bungalow and find circumnavigating the locked door to the outdoor staircase to be as easy as holding on to it and swinging around to the stairs. The steps are narrow and covered with steeply ramped dust--the accumulation of untold years. All of the windows are shuttered and latched offering no opportunity to peer in. I make my way around the similarly dirt and dust occluded second story balcony and finally up the ladder-like stairs to the rooftop terrace. The feel of the yard is that of an abandoned set from Indiana Jones complete with large stone swastikas that serve as windows in the terrace wall. When I close my eyes it is not hard to imagine a time when the bungalow was an idyllic hide-a-way from the din of the surrounding city. The two trees would have been towering back in the day, and provided ample shade to the terrace and opposite building's patio area.

Back on the ground I grab a couple of discarded plastic bags and easily stuff them close to the point of breaking without making any discernible dent in the amount of trash. An empty concrete well serves as a nice dumping ground. I start making piles. When cleaning making piles is always a feel-good first step. One pile is for the considerable thorny brush that is entangled everywhere with the man-made refuse. Man and nature have cooperated here in the cruelest of ways to maximize entropy. Untangle and pile. A second pile is made for glass and broken bottles. A third pile is started for all broken, crumbling or about-to-be-broken-and-crumbling-after-I-toss-them bricks, ceramic pipe and stone. I think it is the sound of this pile taking form that gives rise to The Spectacle.

"Oh, Mark. Mark. No!" Dipikaben, the matron of the next door flat (and Dipika #4 of this saga if you're counting), is shouting from her back window. She waves a prohibitive hand in my direction and and shakes her head vigorously. At first I am concerned that her demonstrativeness is the result of some unforeseen transgression I have made, above and beyond trespassing. But after some Gujarati-English-Hindi mixed dialog I am able to determine that she is thinking I should just not be cleaning, period. Soon Bhoomi and Manan's father appears at his window and joins Dipikaben's pleas with equal vim.

"Noooo Mark. Not this. Nooooo!"

I pretend to not fully understand their objections and continue with my pile making. John comes over the wall and I point out the onlookers which have momentarily fallen silent to watch my efforts. When he too starts plucking up the varied refuse the hue and cry recommences promptly joined by two, then five and ten more voices.

"No Mark, John. Noooo! What are you doing? It's dirty. Mark! John! No!" Gujarati injunctions are joined by those in English from a few of the upper flat dwellers. "Mark. Hey a Mark, what are you a doing?" Jinesh queries in his unmistakable voice.

"Just cleaning for a bit," I yell, pausing to look up.

"But, why here?"

"It's our backyard and it's a mess."

"But you shouldn't a clean here," he begins, "It will just a get dirty again in a couple of days. The people will just a throw their trash here again."

"But maybe it will look nice for a couple of days," I counter, chucking another brick pile-ward.

All the rear windows of Swarg are barred, some with with protruding cages. About four feet separate the back of the building from the wall that surrounds the abandoned property. In an effort to get as close as possible to John and I, Bhoomi, Manan, their parents and several other kids climb into the cage surrounding their double window. The smaller children stand while the adults squat in the cramped quarters of the cage and arms are thrust out at us in protest. Another cage is filled and arms extend between bars from windows everywhere Broadway musical style. I worry that one will give way under the unnatural weight it's being subjected to.

John pauses from collecting bits of styrofoam and assesses the unfolding chaos of which we are the focus. "It's like a zoo," he muses, in disbelief, "I wish I had my camera."

"It's like a prison riot," I add, "Only they want us to get back in jail." Actually it's hard to come up with an adequate simile, as is so often the case at the intersection of Western perspective with the wild and wooly Indian experience. On the one hand you have the odd, increasingly emaciated, Americans doing the work suited to the lower castes in the mid-day heat, seemingly unable to comprehend even the simplest Gujarati sentences. On the other hand you have a building burgeoning with howling protesters at barred windows crying out on a yard that appears to have a vacated jail and officer quarters with occasional monkeys (the tailed kind, in addition to John and I) marveling at the commotion. Just weird and weirder.

"Hey a Mark." Jinesh has come down and scaled the wall to reiterate his appeal in person. "Don't do this because they will a just a throw their waste again."

"There's a chance that once they see how nice the yard can be they won't throw their trash anymore. In any case it might look a little bit nicer for a few days and even that's okay with me."

"Yes, but this is a dirty work. Some sweeper can be a found to do this."

"It's okay. I enjoy sweeping."

"And a Mark. This a place is haunted. There's a bhoot . . . a ghost."

"Even ghosts need lovin'," I counter.

Jinesh, arms akimbo, stares on in frustration as John and I continue to grow the various piles. Dipika-behin reappears at her window with a couple of burlap sacks which she throws down into the yard with unerring precision. Hmmmm. "Hey, use!" she says pointing to the bags at our feet. She comes back once more to throw a hat down to John who is at the mercy of the searing heat of the sun sans bandana. The two small acts represent a crack in the previously unified front against our cleaning and are appreciatively acknowledged with smiling politician-like waves. The others continue to rattle cages and shake bars while pleading with us to cease and desist from our madness. Over the next hour their vigor wanes as the heat waxes against the unshaded Swarg and the novelty of our impropriety begins to wear off. An occasional new voice will offer a few shouts of disapproval until, brought up to speed by the other Swargites.

As the temperature peaks in the 110 neighborhood we decide to call it a day. I am covered in fine dust from big toe to bandana and the cool reprieve of a shower is supernal. Peering between the glass slat's of the bathroom window I survey our handiwork. There is still a healthy amount of litter scattered about, but things are definitely looking better. One result of removing so much litter is that the dirt covering the buildings has become more noticeable. It seems like all cleaning is that way--once you start your attention is simply refined to find subtler uncleanliness.

The following day I head out early and once more run into Darshan in the parking lot where again he probes my intention the hand shaking "where-are-you-going" thing that I have only encountered in Gujarat. "Cleaning?" he asks with the grave intensity of a brain doc.

"Hanh. Saaf karne ke liye," I confirm. He nods his head soberly and stares at the ground lost in thought. Finally he looks up frowning. "I come?"

"Sure, why not? Chalo!" I am a little nervous about what the reaction of the Swargite's will be upon seeing one of their own in the cleaning dome. With a bag in one hand I start collecting from the thinning layer of trash in the yard. With the other hand I scoop and toss the bits of brick and tile to their now pyramidal pile. Darshan is intent on exploring the property and does so calling out to me periodically from different vantage points. Satisfied at having found no obvious signs of a ghost, he joins me in the dirt and adds to my trash bag and the masonry pile.

The perpetual smile that is Raj is the first to spot us from his back window. "Hi Mark!" he bubbles.

"Hey Raj!" I call back. He pauses at the window smiling daffily before disappearing inside his flat and then reappearing ten minutes later in the yard. Like Darshan he explores for a while before joining our cleaning efforts in the growing heat. John is the next to arrive and is pleasantly surprised to see my young comrades in cleaning. He is followed in short order by Nisharg who comes armed with a rubber ball which abruptly disrupts the nascent impulse for cleaning. Pooja comes to the window to yell hysterically at Darshan and while her blistering diatribe is in Gujarati it is not hard to catch her intent which is to have her brother get back to their flat double-time before their mother sees him in the yard and flips out over his dirty clothes. Her warning is prescient as almost immediately, tipped off by Pooja's shouting, their mother sees him in the yard and flips out over his dirty clothes. Darshan bids us adieu and exits stage left, head hung low. Nisharg and Raj continue to bounce the ball off walls unperturbed by the loss of their partner in play. Occasionally they toss a few stones and bricks into the pile utilizing some of the skills honed with the rubber ball--which leads me to my theory: all human play is simply skill building for cleaning and other mundane tasks.

Scattered objections are shouted down at us during our hour or two of cleaning, but not nearly to the degree of opening day. Nisharg is kind enough to serve as intermittent translator when pressed. "They are saying, 'Don't do this,' because it is dirty work." "He is saying this will never be clean." "She is telling you not to work in the sun because your skin will grow dark." "They are saying a sweeper can do this and you should not." I acknowledge each protest with a single wave and squinting smile which serves only to solidify my reputation as the crazy American. Of all characteristics to be ascribed to oneself, craziness is best because it leaves the scope of future operations wide open within the bounds of classification.

Back in our flat, I note, not for the first time, how the vivifying aspect of a shower is on a whole different order when one is covered in the sweat and dirt engendered by intense physical labor. Once again I conduct a post-ablutionary survey of the day's clean up from between the slats of the bathroom window. The ground is nearly ninety percent litter free, but the collection of dust on the building now screams for attention.

The following day Darshan and Nisharg procure brooms and we set about creating a vast cloud of fine dust and ash. In the process of dust removal, I am surprised to discover the taller of the two buildings sports an eight-foot apron of concrete and a small walkway. Another frenzy of sweeping by the jail-like building reveals large diamond-shaped concrete tiles that comprise the floor of a walled patio. I feel like an archeologist steadily uncovering the long-unseen handiwork of not-so-ancient Ahmedabadis. My daydream paints the yard with lush greenery and strings variegated lights between uncut trees. The quick rhythm of a tabla lays a bed of sound for a sitar and laughing voices to dance upon. A swirl of saris explode in color on the patio while men in kurtas gather on the veranda to discuss the latest goings on in the world of cricket. Packs of chattering children run between the two groups tugging on fingers to get attention. My fanciful reverie is cut short by a well-dressed, middle-aged man motioning for me through the bars of the front gate.

"What are you doing here?" he asks.

"The yard was dirty so I thought I'd clean it," I say, "The owner lives in America so no one is taking care of the property and the people from our building use it as a waste bin."

"I am the owner."

"What?"

"I own this property. The two buildings are mine."

"Oh, are you just visiting from America?"

"I stay just here on the other side of Swarg."

"How often do you come to Ahmedabad."

"I live here only."

"Oh."

It is slightly whimsical to be conversing with the owner through the gate, he unable to enter his own property and being challenged by a trespasser as to his place of residence. With a mind hell-bent for metaphors again I am at a loss to find the appropriate fit and instead concentrate on masking my growing amusement at the situation. Laughing, I figure, will only further complicate a topsy-turvy situation. As fortune should have it the owner is completely understanding and even appreciative of my efforts.

"These people have no manners," he explains pointing over to Swarg, "My wife has told them so many times not to throw their waste back here but they will not listen."

"Maybe they will stop if we make it look really nice," I offer, "Anyway it's really amazing that the kids are helping out. They came on their own."

The owner scrunches his lips and nods his head slowly, apparently reluctant to cede any credit to the Swargites and then, after a pause, invites me to his house at my convenience. I agree to come soon and we part with a handshake through the bars. Nisharg and Darshan have long since scaled the wall in a remote corner of the property and disappeared. I return to cleaning and fall into a meditative rhythm.

Over the following days I start to appreciate fully the focus on cleaning that is central to so many ashram's programs. What drudgery to sweep and pick up for a number of hours every day, I used to think, doubly so when the mess isn't "yours." Even as our neighbors had pointed out, the unkempt state will only return after a time, so, at best any visible changes are only temporary. But as I am sweeping something happens to these resistances and one by one they are brushed away. Other, unrelated, long simmering vexations rise up in the noosphere but they too are whisked away in time with the hypnotic motion of sweeping. In time I am only sweeping--no longer daydreaming, worrying, planning, plotting or introspecting. Then after some more time there is just the sweeping and no me. Even the sound of the hand broom contacting the ground fall away. The respite from the weightiness of self is short as I start to reflect on the origins of the various dust specks that are sent billowing left then right, left then right. In their particulate state the specks are nearly indistinguishable, yet at one time these were the paint on the buildings, the pollen on the rose given to a girl on her birthday, the rose petals, stem and thorn, aphid and ladybug, the girl's hand, the giver's toes, a rival's heart. Under the tireless pistil of time, beloved and detested, agreed and contested, healthy and infested, master and servant, before and after are all ground into fine sameness. All these things that at one time seemed so real and distinct now float together on the currents of air driven by my broom. They were only as solid as the willfulness of the various players that breathed life into these forms. When the will ebbed they sank into the undifferentiated sea of Atlantis and joined the ashes of the great library at Alexandria. In time, too, sweeper will join swept and these thoughts will still.

Sunday comes and I sweep alone in a self-imposed silence. I feel the intensity of an icy stare coming from over the wall at Swarg. A woman with a scowl that would send Roberto Duran running for his corner, unleashes at torrent of anger in my direction. Unwilling to speak I simply return her gaze and try to my best to divine the source of her ire. Her blistering lambaste continues unabated and I imagine slow wisps of smoke curling from her ears. I am certain she is going to blow her top at any moment and uncork her lava-red head over the wall to bite at my heels. I conjecture that she is upset that I am using a broom supplied from the Swarg side and hence I offer it up knowing full well I have two secreted away in reserve. She spitefully snatches the broom from my hand and continues to spew unadulterated invective, but now punctuates her epithets with menacing jousts. My offering eventually pays dividends as she backtracks into the shadows of the building now fencing with invisible demons. With the sting of her words still sticking like the dirt to my sweat I am motioned over to the opposite side of the yard where another middle-aged woman is waiting patiently for her turn to unload on the videshi sweeper. After her comparatively mild first salvo I pinch my index finger to thumb and make a zipping motion across my lips to indicate I am speechless. She waggles her head in resignation and retreats into her yard. What could she have possibly taken offense to I wonder. How odd the bitterness they directed at me feels, being unable to understand a word of the complaints and unwilling to respond with words. I can feel the anger as a build up of heat throughout my body, but particularly near the skin on my face and neck. My gut instinct to lash back was short-circuited by my silence, but I am still burning from the verbal assault. I sweep and within a few minutes the sudden build up of heat has largely dissipated. I sweep some more and all urges to reciprocate or defend myself lose steam and are replaced with nascent feelings of pity then compassion. It's not so hard to see myself on their side of the wall. It's not so hard to see the cleaning American is only a foil--a scape goat for a lifetime faintly echoing with broken promises, broken dreams and broken relationships. A crystal of salt abrading an old wound.

The following day yet another housewife is beckons me hither, this time from the gate side of the compound. With the previous day's experience fresh in my mind I resolve to stay cool, to share in her frustration rather than oppose it. I take a deep breath and smile as I approach, a broom in one hand and a stuffed plastic bag in the other. Darshan and Raju follow. "What are you doing here?" she frowns, pointing behind me to the yard from whence I have come.

"We've been cleaning for a while everyday just to make the neighborhood look a little nicer."

Her frown softens. "Where are you coming from? What are you doing in India?"

"A few friends and I came from the U.S. to conduct experiments in service, silence and now sanitation--which seems to combine a little bit of both. Are you from across the street?" I thrust my nose in the direction of a palatial bungalow with resplendent garden and lawn.

"Yes. Would you like to come over?" I am stunned both at the invitation and quick turnabout in tone, but jump at the opportunity to see the mysterious emerald residence behind the gilded gate. Darshan and Raju are quick to scale the wall just after me in the hopes of piggybacking on the invitation into the world of the rich, and as I am to learn later, famous. The fancifully adorned gatekeepers are not at all amused to see local ragamuffins penetrate their domain without a fight and disdainfully eye our dirt-coated trio. My request that John be included on the tour is granted and Darshan is sent running to Swarg to fetch him.

The yard looks remarkably like my daydream for the ghost bungalow come to life. A lush lawn (a true rarity in Ahmedabad) is flanked by towering trees and perfumed flora. We sit in a artistically embellished gazebo sipping limu pani and are introduced to the woman's daughter who is studying fashion design at a local college. To one side of us a bungalow that in size and design looks more like an eight-unit apartment building than a single family residence towers overhead, to the other side a guest cottage that is taken straight from a tourist brochure for Switzerland. During a leisurely tour of both buildings we learn that the family has attempted local greening and cleaning initiatives but were disappointed with a lack of cooperation from neighbors. Our meager cleaning efforts have re-fired their imagination at the possibilities, though they inform us, in the most matter-of-fact manner, that our theater of operation is most definitely haunted--so assuredly so that the property is not marketable. "There is a ghost living there so no one will buy this place," the mother relates as if talking about the price of cable, "Everybody knows about it." Mother and daughter shrug shoulders. What can one do? Ghosts depress real-estate valuations and that's that.

l admire the photo of a wise looking senior hanging over the door in the living room and am told the story of the family patriarch: how he started selling saris from the back of his bike until he could afford rent on a cramped shop in the old city; how he parlayed his savings to start another shop, then another; how the shops grew under his, then his sons' watch and culminated with operation of three of the city's largest and most prestigious sari stores. Then at the peak of success, how grandpa left all of his material wealth behind and took up the white robes of a Jain monk much to the chagrin of immediate family. He's still out there, they inform me, though they know not where as he walks kilometers daily, the time-honored regimen of the wandering sadhu.

I am cleaning the top level of the ghost bungalow the following morning when the owner hails me from his home which lies kitty-corner of the property. "It is not safe to clean up there," he warns, "the earthquake has weakened the structure."

"It's okay, I'm not safe either. I'm almost finished anyway. How are you doing?"

"I am okay, but you must be careful. I don't want you to fall" he says, "Can you and John come over to my house soon? People want to meet you that are interested in uplifting the neighborhood."

"Sure, just let me know when."

"Also my wife runs a summer camp for the local children at Mangal Vidyalaya and would like you to help instruct the kids. It's held from five to seven p.m. and you can come over with the children from Swarg if you like."

"No problem. I'd love to come."

That evening I head over to the school grounds with Nisharg and Darshan just behind Bhoomi, Prachi and Saloni. About twenty kids are already gathered and a ripple of excitement sweeps through their ranks when big whitey arrives. I am introduced to the beaming neighbor's wife who started the camp. She explains that she was concerned that the city kids were forgetting how to play and spending too much time in front of the television or playing video games. "We want them to know all the games we played when we were young," she says.

"We are still young, aren't we?"

"Oh, ho, ho, ho," she chortles. She is probably all of thirty years of age but has clearly accepted this as middle years not suited for play and when the games begin, true to form she opts out standing to the side smiling wildly.

I am bigger, faster and meaner than all the kids assembled and have no problem dominating at each of the games most of which I play nightly with the Swarg crew anyway. I make sure the kids won't soon forget their humiliating defeat at the hands of a foreigner and am quick to pump my fists skyward chanting, "U-S-A, U-S-A, U-S-A!" so there can be no mistaking who their daddy is. Unfortunately the kids delight in what should be a crushing loss and chant along with me. I change the chant to "I-N-D-I-A, I-N-D-I-A," hoping to throw their little minds off the scent, but they are only increasingly ecstatic and feed off of my fickle allegiance. The odd assortment of adults gathered doesn't quite know what to make of the overly enthusiastic American, but the kids have clearly adopted me as one of their own.

That night I amuse myself by casting giant creepy shadows from our flat against the ghost bungalow. I wonder with delight if any of the other Swarg residents will happen to glance at my ghoulish shadow show. Perhaps I have become the notorious apparition--haunting the locals with my unconventional behavior. Other times I intend to steal a glance at the eerily illuminated buildings and instead find my gaze locked for a spine-chilling moment or two with full expectation of seeing a face appear at a window, a hand grasping a window bar or a figure disappear around a corner. The latter of these is, in fact, exactly what I see, or think I see, although it transpires the following day in the full sunlight. Raj and Nisharg are idly throwing a rubber ball between the two buildings while John and I sweep. Darshan scales the wall and completes a ball-tossing triangle with Nisharg and Raj. I am stooped over sweeping, but see someone go behind the ghost bungalow and I follow to warn them about the crumbling masonry and open sewer pit. No one is there. I peer inside the building, but the illumination is poor and in any case it would be extremely difficult to enter through the jagged gap in the bricks. I go to the far side of the bungalow. Still no one. I complete one round of the perimeter. John is still cleaning and the three boys playing catch. "Is anyone else here?" I ask.

"No one else has come," Nisharg says, "Why are you asking?"

"I saw someone go behind the building, but no one is there."

"You saw the ghost?" he asks.

"Yes. I guess I did."

A buzz goes up among the three boys and word quickly gets back to Swarg where a number of residents gather at the wall to hear more details. It's hard to make anything of it at all due to the improbable timing--so many people are around and its the middle of the day. John is amused.

The following Monday we walk the short distance to the owner of the ghost bungalow's bungalow, for the previously promised pow-wow. The get-together has been organized by Maheshbhai to clarify what it is exactly that we are doing in India and to see if we can all work together on a project. Personally I am thrilled that such a meeting has come to transpire. It is confirmation, I muse, of the purity of our cleaning efforts that they are having positive ripple effects and a larger action appears to be self-organizing around the seed we've planted. We ascend a side stairs and enter a room where Maheshbhai, his wife and daughter, an elderly woman and one local teen are seated. There are others too, we are informed, that wanted to attend, but could not because of the timing. Originally scheduled for Sunday the meeting was moved to accommodate my day of silence. Reenaben, the elderly woman wastes no time in convening the meeting and wants to know what we will do about the trash that accumulates near her flat adjacent to the Am-Way building. "They have a cold-drink machine and people are throwing the cans at my wall. There are Coca-Cola cans and all the other drinks you have brought from America. No waste bin has been provided. You are from America right?"

"We are, but we have nothing to do with the Am-Way. I think it's even outlawed in America because it was determined to be a pyramid scheme" I say, a little surprised and amused by the accusatory tone she has struck.

"But you support these things, right?"

"Pyramid schemes or Coca-Cola? No, I don't support pyramid schemes, though I did invest in the US stock market at one time, and it pretty much operates largely like a pyramid scheme. I sometimes drink Coke, but I prefer Limca. But I think both are owned by Coke now and ThumsUp too. I don't know, really."

"But you are from America, right?"

"Yes, but we no more control the policies of our government or corporations as you do of Mahendra Modi or the Tata Group. We're just trying to give something back to a country, or ideal, that has given us so much. Really our whole message is that every moment is an opportunity for service, and we hope to inspire others to get dirty to get clean, so to speak. We don't have to look outside of ourselves to find cleaning to do. We could spend several lifetimes pointing our fingers at the faults of others, including our respective governments, various companies or individuals, or we could instead see these as only projections of internal dirt that needs to be scrubbed away. We aren't here as proponents of the Americanization of India or anything."

"But even with your cleaning in the back there you also have get the residents to stop littering or the problem will remain. Nothing will really change. What I want to know is how can you help me."

"You can help yourself," John chimes in, "You don't have to wait for anyone else to start cleaning."

"There is an English saying that you must be being familiar with," Maheshbhai says in a tight smile, "that says that when I point at someone else there are four fingers pointing back at me." He demonstrates by pointing across the couch at me. I am tempted to point out that there are only three fingers pointing back at him and a thumb cocked at some obscure angle but hold my tongue as his point is appreciated. I smile back at him and he nods his head up and down and makes a chortling sound with raised eyebrows. Reenaben is scowling now.

"So are you willing to help me or not," she asks flatly.

"We would be glad to help," I say, "but the I think the best of what we have to share is what happens when we start to do what appears to be the work of others. There are some really beautiful, subtle things that go on within us when we do something as simple as sweeping and the effect is magnified when we clean for others. But it is one thing to talk about it and another to give it a go. Everyone should test for themselves if there is any value in this idea."

"But are you willing to go to the president of Am-Way and tell him about my problem?" Reenaben says, "You are here to give service, isn't it?" She is starting to appear as female aspect of the ever-challenging Golum.

"We don't have any special contacts with Am-Way," John says, "You should probably look into contacting them yourself. But we can all clean together, even right now."

"I have contacted Am-Way," Reenaben says pointedly, "but they haven't responded."

A tense silence fills the room. Reenaben is glowering and John appears to be in no mood to accommodate her specific grievance. My high expectations for the meeting have crashed gloriously. I am desperate to recover some of the goodwill that led us to come together in the first place. "You know one thing is for sure. All of us came here because of some impulse to do some outside the scope our immediate interests," I lean in Reenaben's direction, "You want the cans collected not just for you, but for the benefit of everyone in your neighborhood, " then I turn to Maheshbhai, "And you were willing to let us clean on your property even though we were doing so without prior permission, because you something of value there, beyond the simple fact that your property was being cleaned. And you graciously called for this important meeting at your flat. Your wife has inspired me and other mothers in the area with her summer camp for the kids. She could be playing bridge at the local sports club, but she felt that it was more important to offer positive instruction for all the children in the neighborhood and not just your daughter."

"You must play with the kids of your flat everyday," Reenaben says reproachfully.

"But, I do!" I say, "Usually a couple hours everyday."

"I know," she says, "but you must teach them new games too and values."

"The kids have have been the most inspirational of all," I offer trying to recapture the thrust of my soapbox soliloquy, "In fact, they have been amazing. They have come almost everyday to help clean even sometimes against the wishes of their parents. Now they pester me in the evening about what time we will be cleaning next."

"But you will notice no older children will join you, isn't it?" Reenaben says, "The younger ones are willing to do it just because they want to be like you, but the older ones are beyond reach and will not think it is a good thing to do."

"If we are reaching only the younger kids I think still has tremendous value. They are tomorrow's teenagers and next year's adults. Just in having cleaned for a while themselves with some crazy American when they were young they might get the idea that there is no shame in it. Maybe they will even experience some of the deeper benefits and be encouraged to continue experimenting on their own. Maybe it won't be cleaning per se, but something else."

Reenaben appears dubious of my grand claims, but is silent. John makes his own push to salvage the meeting. "Let's do something right now instead of just talking," he says, "Let's go out right now and do some action together. We should make an action a part of every meeting instead of just sitting the whole time." The implications of his invitation do not appear to sit well with those gathered.

"I compost almost all my wet waste at home," Reenaben says, shifting.

"That's great, but let's do something right now," John says impatiently. He is spring-loaded in his chair like a tenuous cork in a wine bottle waiting for the party to begin.

"But it will take time..." Reenaben says.

"This is taking time." John is unapologetic. Nobody stirs.

"I think John's right and we should end every meeting with some action even if for only five minutes. It could just be something symbolic if nothing else," I offer in the hopes of establishing some easily manageable timeframe to ease the fears of the assembled.

"But we need tools and I don't have time..." Reenaben says, now visibly fidgeting.

"We are the tools we need," says John. He is starting to stand which evidently is too much for Reenaben to bear.

"I have to go now," she says and promptly exits toward the kitchen.

"Did she just leave?" I ask no one in particular, not able to accept the suddenness of her departure. I am amused both at her apparent aversion to work and the unreal quality of the entire get together. The Golum episode is brought to memory. Is this a dream? In real life John is not this aggressive and someone else would have contributed a sentence here or there other than Reenaben and us. My question remains unanswered so I take the opportunity to lean over to Maheshbhai and ask if his property really has a ghost.

"Yes it has a ghost," he smiles, "It is you!" He can barely contain his glee at his witticism and successful deflection of my question. Lest I probe further he quickly begins delivering what sounds like the post-mortem to our meeting when Reenaben pokes her head back into the room.

"Okay, let's go," she says to our dumbstruck group. The rest of us crash into formation behind her and we descend the stairs to the driveway. At ground level John takes charge and suggests we clean the street from the bungalow's gates to the park some hundred yards distant. John and I swoop down and gather enough discarded plastic bags to distribute to the others and then begin plucking up the various tobacco packs and bits of waste that have accumulated since the last pass of the rag pickers and street sweepers. I sneak peeks at Reenaben who is cautious at first but then quite proficient in her cleaning efforts. It is impressive, too, to catch glimpses of Maheshbhai in his immaculate business attire stooping over to collect waste. Our party re-convenes at the gate to the park where we find a rare waste bin to deposit our bags. Of the hundred or so folk that happen to be a street-side every eye is glued to our odd procession. Congratulations and handshakes are shared with the promise to meet again soon. The late afternoon sun still holds sway in our quaint corner of Mithakali and the sweat flows freely. Our backyard revolution has spilled out onto the streets and the feel is good.

Uncivil Hospital

John, Anjali and I take a relaxed late night walk back to Jayesh-bhai's after treating ourselves to orange ice candy (Indian English for popsicle) near Subhash bridge. Halfway home we stop to sit street side on an impressively-sized gas pipe section on either side of which slum folk are prepping for bed on plastic sheets and blankets spread out on the dirt. Anjali strikes up a lively conversation with an older woman while a collection of scooter and motorcycle drivers buzz in from the road to cluster around the odd assemblage. Thirty yards distant, from the shadowed depths of the street side encampment, a man motions feverishly for me to approach. I have become accustomed to ignoring such invitations as nuisance quiz sessions as to country of origin, good name, father's name and so on. I pretend not to have seen the man and look blankly to the opposite side of Ring Road where sundry wallahs are still peddling tea, tobacco packs and sugarcane juice from their carts. As I swing my head back to where Anjali's dialog remains the center of attention I catch sight of the man crab-walking his way toward me heavily favoring one leg. He cradles a wood crutch in the depression formed between thighs and torso. Now there can be no disguising that I have seen him. He takes a breather to motion me hither once more and I notice for the first time that he has a bloody shirt wrapped about the right thigh of the leg not in use. Holding my attention he starts to peel back the shirt to reveal a large ruddy area where the skin is missing. I frantically motion for him to keep the makeshift bandage in place and turn to John and Anjali.

"Hey you guys, I think this guy's hurt real badly. We're probably going to have to take him to a hospital." Anjali and John look to where the man is still eagerly displaying the top portion of what appears to be a massive wound. A quick discussion ensues. I offer to take the man to the hospital myself, but Anjali points out there will almost certainly be language barriers and offers to come along. We all are carrying multiple bags. The three of us, our baggage and the man are unlikely to fit into a single rickshaw--certainly not without risking further damage to his leg. Securing two rickshaws seems out of the question at this hour, so we determine we should hurry to Jayesh-bhai's, drop our belongings off before the house is locked for the evening, and then return to hunt for a rickshaw. Our plan is shared with the man who has made it streetside and Anjali asks that he stay put until we come back.

Parvati, Jayesh-bhai's adoptive eighteen year old, is watching one the many overly dramatic Indian serials when we arrive. Countless reaction shots heavy with see-saw zooming effects are utilized to heighten the impact of stiffly-delivered soap dialog. We brief Parvati on the mission, but she politely declines our invitation to come along and instead assists in filling water bottles and stashing luggage before we head back out.

Murti's Law: Exhaust spewing rickshaws will hound your every step when you want to walk and are no where to be found when you need a ride. Back on the main road we try to hail a rickshaw on the emptying streets, but are spurned by the few that speed to unknown destinations fat with fares. We head up the road to where a lonely rickshaw sits decommissioned for the night. The driver is prodded from his nearby cot and we make our pitch for conveyance. He is receptive until he sees the bandaged leg of our companion and then explains that the rickshaw cannot be used for injured persons and only an ambulance will do. You know you're in for a long night when you are jilted by a rickshaw-wala with an empty vehicle. When we finally succeed in hailing a rickshaw on the road we decide on a new tact and obscure our companion from the driver's view. Anjali asks for the nearest hospital and the driver assures her that he knows the way. John sits up front with the driver and I, then our injured friend and finally Anjali carefully stuff in the back taking care not to make contact with the injured leg. No sooner than we start out and Kishan makes an odd sound, scrunches his body and I feel something wet hit my exposed leg. When I look over to him he is adjusting the bandage and grinning broadly. Anjali looks over to me smiling. "What was that?" I shake my head side to side, resigned to having been exposed to unknown fluid number 101. Chalk it up to just one of the occupational hazards of being a "do-gooder."

After several left turns that complete the sides of a square it becomes apparent our driver is lost despite his good-natured assertions to the contrary. He slows the rickshaw to a crawl and asks for directions from pedestrians who give conflicting instructions. Eventually I spot the sign of the hospital in the distance and point it out to the riskshaw-wala who is relieved to be drop the pretense of navigational expertise. A squadron of police loiter about their jeeps at the hospital's entrance and one steps forward to ask Anjali what our business is at the institution. From the way the police are settled it appears they have been there for hours--a couple sleep in the back of one jeep with their legs crossed and resting on the front seat. We show Ashok's injury and they begin peppering him with questions which reveal the injury is over a year old. The policemen tell us they can't be involved with his case because of the time lapse. "This is a private hospital," a round-faced officer with thick moustache says, "Who is going to pay for the work on his leg?" When I indicate my willingness he says the hospital will only try to take advantage of us and charge far beyond whatever the work costs. He recommends, in a way that suggest we have no choice, that we head to the public hospital across the river.

When it becomes clear the police will not avail their vehicle for the new destination we pack ourselves into the rickshaw once more and have directions explicitly communicated to the driver before heading out. The streets are almost completely empty now and are rickshaw is embarrasingly loud in the unusually serene context--a lonely survivor of a post-apacalyptic Ahmedabad sputtering through uncharacteristically fresh air. I sing a filmy song along with the radio and put my arm around Kishan who harmonizes and momentarily becomes downright giddy. Anjali leans over and tells me she thinks our hospital-bound friend is quite toasted. We buzz past walls replete with Victoria underwear advertisements that look like they haven't been updated since independence. The color scheme and implementation give the appearance of a mammoth, laterally-oriented Warhol installation. These stand in stark contrast to saucily bold billboards hawking Extreme briefs with a nearly naked couple engaged in foreplay. The "x" in "extreme" serves double duty heading the vertically oriented "x-rated." Once we cross the Sabarmati a couple of bhangi (sweepers) are the only signs of life before we arrive at the campus of Civil Hospital Ahmedabad.

A couple of plumpish guards armed with rifles man the door to the emergency ward and peruse our party of four with obvious bemusement. In retrospect, it would have behooved us had the guards denied us entry to the hospital at this point. Inside my eyes are immediately drawn to what appears to be an unattached thumb complete with bloody entrails just in front of the operating room doors. Closer inspection reveals that it is a blood stained wrap of a digit that is no more in residence but has left a gauze littered pool in its wake. Three yards beyond a dog lies dead tired or just plain dead. To the right we are beckoned to a caged reception area by three inmates manning a single dirt-stained PC. While one questions Kishan from a reclined plastic yard chair, another sits atop the counter and enters the necessary bureaucratic bunk with handless stubs. We are asked to pay a fifty rupee entrance fee and it is impossible to tell if it is a legit fee or simply the cost of having the trio direct us to the next destination. We are waved up the hallway around a corner to where a girl is screaming uncontrollably on top a hard metal gurney that could pass as a realistic prop in a 19th century period piece. Her family wheels her up the hallway with no staff in attendance as far as I can tell. I desperately want to offer her some comfort, but am afraid the appearance of a white person may only increase her anxiety. We wait in front of a desk as two frowning staffers decide where to send Kishan. Finally it is determined we should go to the other side of the hospital and a wheelchair with three working wheels is produced for our use. For it to function at all it has to be held in a perpetual wheelie--no problem as this is my natural inclination when pushing a wheelchair anyway. The wheelchair, like the gurney, is made entirely of metal with no cushioning for butt, back or arms. It appears to have been painted read at one time and soldering repairs are visible at the joints. We squeak past sleeping patients to either side that are stretched out on sheets or simply the floor itself. Carefully we negotiate the chair over bumps and down an unlit corridor which leads to a littered outdoor passage and finally to our ward.

Three soiled and blood-stained cots are lined up outside the x-ray room. A turbaned man contorts his body in pain on the middle bed while a disinterested staffer stares blankly at his clipboard. With our appearance a crowd of security personnel, doctors and miscellaneous staff quickly forms around us and we fill them in on Kishan's status. The doctors only half listen to our briefing before leveling a barrage of questions Kishan's way. The questioning turns into lecturing, taunting and then spiteful attacks during which time no effort is made to look at the wound or offer any succor. I step in to ask the main doc if we should take Kishan somewhere else. The question is successful in interrupting the inquisition and the doctor informs us that x-rays will need to be taken before anything else can be done.

"Don't you want to see the wound first?" I say, "I don't think there are any broken bones. He just has a large amount of missing skin." The doctor says that it is standard operating procedure for everyone coming on the ward to have x-rays taken before being examined. I try again, "Can't you take just a quick look at his leg before x-raying?" I am assured that this is not possible. "The x-ray will show everything," the doctor assures me, "Then we can decide what needs to be done."

The doctor is a thin man in his late forties and wears a dress shirt, tie and pants, but no white overcoat as if he is off duty. Like so many Amhedabadis in positions of authority he maintains a well-groomed moustache. Something about his manner strongly suggests he is an actor playing the role of a doctor rather than an actual physician. The hospital itself has the appearance of a low-budget set designed for afternoon soaps that hasn't been cleaned during the off season. Over the course of the night I find myself waiting for the doctor to turn to me and deliver the hackneyed, "I am not a doctor, I just play one on television." Even the staff mills about waiting for an unseen director to call them into action before tending with intensity to any of the moaning wounded.

I pull Anjali aside while we wait for the x-ray room to become available. "Why were they giving Kishan the ninth degree? It's like they don't even care about his injury."

"I know. One of the guys that was grilling him evidently is an ex-policeman who recognized Kishan because he busted him for drinking about a year ago," Anjali explains, "He could tell that Kishan is drunk and evidently no one who is intoxicated is allowed in the hospital. He was threatening to bust him."

The x-ray room is the cover of a retro sci-fi pulp in three dimensions--all that's missing is the catchy teaser, "X-Rayed Into Submission." Kishan is made to leave his crude wooden crutch outside the room and crab walk over to the table for his x-ray. The machine's operator is concerned the crutch may contain some hidden metal. Too many Ian Fleming novels or errant radiative doses have evidently taken their toll. While we wait for the film to be processed John decides he should have his long troublesome shoulder x-rayed and heads back to the main counter to register as a patient. Kishan's alcohol-induced positivity is beginning to wear off and he shows signs of wanting to bolt. Anjali explains the importance of sticking around to have his leg examined and reminds him that it was he who approached us for help; if he takes off now it would all be for naught. An hour passes before a technician appears bearing the x-ray film. He sticks the plates onto a wall mounted light box and studies them briefly before announcing, "There are no broken bones here." His tone suggests that he is suspicious that someone has played a trick on him.

"We didn't think there were any broken bones. Our friend could have told you that himself. He has a massive surface wound that needs to be tended to," I offer unapologetically.

The technician returns to studying the plates. "There is some trauma to the surface here," he says pointing to a slightly darker patch along the border of the thigh. "We will have to take a look at his leg." The original plain-clothes doc is called back to offer his assessment. He wastes no time in confirming the technicians diagnosis. "We will need to have a look at the leg. There seems to be some disruption to the skin layer." Thank heaven for x-rays.

The doctor and two nurses assume positions around Kishan's cot and he is asked to remove the shirt that is serving as a bandage. I stand bedside transfixed by the unveiling. I need to see clearly now the affliction that set the night into motion from the forgotten recesses of a street side slum. The wound is massive. Essentially the entire outside portion of his right thigh has no skin whatsoever. The leg is cocked permanently at an obtuse angle due to the scarring of tissue near the knee joint. The two orange ice candies are starting a slow tango in my stomach and I have a brief sensation of the room simultaneously constricting and becoming remote. I am still staring at the vast expanse of exposed inner leg anatomy. I decide to sit behind the growing crowd of gawkers against an anonymous wall. Feeling somewhat better I return to find the doctor instructing the nurse to wrap gauze around Kishan's thigh. The gauze is set on the soiled sheet to be cut. Kishan's thigh hasn't been drained, disinfected, dried or even dabbed. The gauze is simply used to take the place of the shirt. I am too dumbfounded and woozy to protest. The doctor hypothesizes to Anjali that it is only due to the perpetually high concentration of alcohol in Kishan's blood that he wasn't dead long ago. "The alcohol in the blood sterilized the wound," he explains, "Medically there can be no other explanation for his surviving like this." If Anjali's face were on the Vegas strip it would be a forty-foot, flashing neon-colored marquee: "NOT BUYING IT!" The doctor continues theorizing in Gujarati unfazed by her obvious skepticism. Later Anjali tells me she thinks that he started making up medical terms to try to keep her convinced of his expertise. The doctor concludes his diagnosis by declaring that Kishan has been brought to the wrong ward and should be returned to emergency. "Why didn't someone tell us that before the x-rays were taken?" I protest.

"He must go to emergency to have this kind of wound treated. He doesn't have any broken bones."

We return in disbelief with our rickety wheelchair to the front entrance where an emergency room doc has just emerged from the operating room. We hand him the previous doc's notes and after a cursory reading he tells Kishan to sit on the floor not five feet from the bloody thumb wrap. He is made to unwrap the wound once more and again a crowd forms to take in the spectacle. The emergency room doc wastes no time in his assessment, scribbling notes while he talks. "He will be needing plastic surgery and you need to take him back to the ward you brought him from." Before we can ask any questions the doctor retreats back through the swinging operating room doors while a staffer re-wraps Kishan's leg with the same gauze which was lying on the visibly dirt-covered floor where the dog lay earlier.

The first doc strikes a decidedly exculpatory tenor when we return. It is evident he overheard my comments on the lack of cleanliness in the hospital during our first visit to his ward. He puts his arm around my shoulder after Kishan is re-deposited on a cot and tells me I should bring a film crew to the hospital to document the filth. "It is not sanitary here. How can anyone get well in such conditions? Everyone should know about that this is the state of their public hospital. You should come back here and show the people how to clean." The doctor reviews the ER doc's notes and informs us that Kishan must stay in the hospital for at least one week. Kishan wants to leave now. Clearly the thought of weathering the taunts of the hospital staff and going without the comforts of his wife and alcohol is not sitting well with him. John reappears proudly wielding the freshly-developed x-rays of his shoulder. After getting Kishan's promise that he won't take off without us, Anjali and I go with John to have the x-rays read by a specialist deep within the bowels of the tentacled building. "These indicate there is absolutely nothing wrong," the x-ray analyst announces much to John's disappointment, "Everything is in order." I propose a bright spot on one sheet might be a long forgotten bullet to no one's amusement.

Back on the ward Kishan has become insistent that we take him home. Whatever high he had enjoyed from imbibing illegal hootch is now completely gone. His brow is permanently furrowed and he's unresponsive when asked what he will do about his leg if it's not treated now. Eventually we strike a deal: he will see Jayesh-bhai's doctor the following morning if we take him home to spend the night. One last stroll with the wheelchair cocked at an thirty degree angle past families sleeping in the hallway, past a dog that has usurped the former's spot, past the unmolested bloody thumb wrap and finally into the relative cool of the night air. A rickshaw driver is unceremoniously roused from limousine dreams to port us back to our homes.

At Jayesh-bhai's Parvati, incredibly, has waited up for us and listens raptly as we relate our latest adventure. On the television a doctor emerges from the operating room to pronounce the dire status of an injured patient and the camera throbs on the slack-jawed disbelief of each family member in turn.