Shade in the Sun

It was the sweltering month of June as I stood in the veranda of our home of ten months, watering the plants. I had stepped onto the veranda which was a courtyard within the building and almost immediately felt the intense heat soak into me as I left the air conditioned confines of the house.

I looked up at the small square of the visible sky, cloudless with a speck of birds dotting it. I had chosen to live here, in this house, situated far from the diplomatic circles, whose influence I had sought to avoid. My husband whose research project had brought him to this mega city in faraway India - thrilling and frightening at the same time- had preferred a residence within the safety of those circles but had met with fierce resistance from me. He had ultimately relented, not without misgivings.

But here I was, just as I had wanted, to be around the native population. It had been strange at first just as expected. People were reserved and circumspect. The barrier of language was not particularly a problem; it was rather the quaint and curious perceptions of neighbors unaccustomed to having foreigners live among them that took a while to overcome.

The sounds of humanity on these streets had enchanted me. It was never quiet, not even late at night. Trucks and motorcycles, cars and bicycles would go speeding through the relative calm of night time, cacophonous blaring horns competing with other road traffic. The monkeys ooohaaa screams would break the momentary silence from time to time, or if not the monkeys, it would be the screeching cats and whelping dogs, as they all struggled to make their place in this bewildering and disorganized world.

Noisy roosters would signal the end of the night as the night watchman would cease to patrol the streets with his elongated cries of "Jagte Raho" or "Stay awake!" simultaneously crashing the end of his stick on the ground, a common practice in these parts of gated communities.

All of a sudden, I was startled by the sound of screeching brakes, of the crashing of metal, of people shouting angrily, coming from the street in front of my home.

I rushed outside to see the cause of the commotion, realizing it would have to be a road accident, and saw a widening circle of people gather around what appeared to be two cars and a bicycle.

Accidents were common on these hazardous roads and I often wondered how many more did not occur. Traffic followed its own tumultuous pattern, essentially each vehicle for itself, without regard to rules and road etiquette, each trying to inch ahead from any side, speeding, stalling, grinding, honking, regardless of lanes, or lights.

As I leaned over the flower pots lining the three-foot wall in front of the house, I recognized someone in the crowd yelling at the driver of one of the vehicles involved, saying something that sounded like, "You maniac, you have killed the child!"

Realizing a child was the victim, I ran out, and almost deferentially, the crowd moved aside to let me through.

My heart stopped at what I saw. Lying in a pool of red was my little Chhaya,
the frail, little Chhaya, who with her winsome, shy smile had won my heart from the first day I met her. No, no! How could this be? How, why was she there? "Call the ambulance!" I shouted to no one in particular, "Call the police!", knowing that was not worth a whole lot.

The man I had recognized-a street vendor-asked me in broken English whether I could carry her to the hospital in my car to which I sprang up and summoned my driver. Knowing an ambulance would not make its way here fast enough, this was probably the only way, without the help of paramedics or equipment, to transfer little Chhaya to the nearest emergency room.

The street vendor gently lifted Chhaya, resting her head in the crook of his arm, and offered her to me. I slid into my car and asked him to sit beside me so I could support her legs, without moving her more than was necessary.

Commanding my driver to drive as smoothly as was humanly possible on these roads, I could not take my eyes off my watch, ticking away the precious minutes, as the unconscious, barely breathing child whose stick-like legs I now held, tugged at my heart strings.

"Me, Chhaya", she had said to me when I first asked her name. It means "shade" she had told me, like the shade under a tree. She had brought a huge pile of freshly laundered and ironed clothes, bundled together and wrapped in a bed sheet on the top of her head. I had noticed the thinness of her body, the softness of her eyes, the shyness of her smile and guessed her to be about 12 years old. I later discovered that she was, in fact, 14 and always referred to herself as "Me, Chhaya" which I found very endearing.

As I learned to navigate my way through life in this colorful and wondrous new world of produce vendors at the front gate, streets full of action at the crack of dawn, flower sellers at several intersections of residential areas, markets with little sweet shops and cafes in virtually every neighborhood, Chhaya, my shade from the sun, (I would tell her that on the scorching days) gradually became my companion for running errands, and sometimes just hanging out with me when she could get away from the numerous chores and laundry delivery to other households that she was responsible for in her family.

There was a jolt! The driver, Roshan, had to slam his foot on the brake! My arms did everything they could to keep the small body from the impact.How far were we? I was perspiring profusely from the heat and anxiety. I had a blood-dripping, dying child in my arms and life around me seemed indifferent to this fact, carrying on as if nothing mattered; the noisy vehicles continued their chaotic journey with no regard to the hurry I was in, not one would give way to let us pass. Heart pounding, nerves on edge, I could do nothing in my helpless rage except swallow it, knowing by now that to the vast multitudes out there, one dying child was of little consequence. Did her parents know? Had someone informed them by now? I hadn't even considered that when we took off.

At last, we reached the hospital, and I hoped fervently that procedures would not delay the care Chhaya desperately needed. Roshan jumped out and spoke to one of the staff at the door and fortunately, a stretcher was instantly brought out. Flies were swarming in the hot air, and as Chhaya was lifted out of the car, several began to settle on her caked up blood along the injuries along her left temple, her neck and shoulder. She still appeared to be breathing as I could feel the breath when I put my hand under her nose. Shooing the flies away with my hand, running alongside the stretcher as it was carried inside the building, I had no time for thought.

The next few hours went in a haze; the flurry of doctors, nurses asking questions, taking Chhaya into another room, noise of children crying, people shouting orders, nothing that really mattered to me. The doctor came back after what seemed like an eternity, as Roshan and I waited on a bench in the crowded lobby. He informed me that Chhaya was seriously injured and had lost a significant amount of blood, and she was going to remain in critical care for now. I wasn't allowed inside.

Through the sunlit doorway, I saw a familiar sari-clad woman appear, and suddenly realizing it was Chhaya's mother, I rushed towards her. Someone must have informed her and she came anxiously towards me, almost bending down to touch my feet. I could see the torment in her eyes and held her by the shoulders, trying to explain in my very broken Hindi laced with English, as best as I could, that Chhaya was being taken care of. I knew they were poor so I assured her that money would not be a problem. I would take care of the bills.

I had nothing to do but wait. I couldn't go back home just yet, as I needed to be here until I knew more about Chhaya's condition. Sitting back on the wooden bench, surrounded by the sounds of squeaky wheels of wheelchairs, stretchers, shuffle of footsteps, overpowering smell of chloroform and antiseptic, my eyes wandered to the ceiling where the spinning fan caught my eye.

There is something lulling in the spinning of a ceiling fan; its monotonous rotation has a hypnotizing effect, I have found, living in this country where ceiling fans abound. It is comforting, in an odd way.

This young girl, with her smooth dark skin, doe-shaped eyes, and high cheek bones had simply walked into my house and my life almost a year ago. Domestic helpers were plentiful and I never had to do a thing to wash or clean around the house. These were arranged by my husband's company who paid for the housing and everything that came with it. The perks were good - leaving me with time to discover the secrets of this incredible land, deciphering the completely alien language spoken here enough to get by, learning to suspend all expectations of the western world in order to learn the nuances of the culture and etiquette of this part of the world.

Chhaya would come unpunctually at eleven every morning, assist the washerwoman with washing of the day's laundry in an area designed for that purpose in the back of the house, and after that was done, would wrap the air-dried clothes from a previous wash in a large sheet and carry them to her home to be ironed.

She spoke a few words of English and from those, along with signs and gestures, began an interaction that would turn out to be one of my most valuable encounters in my life there. Our journey together taught me more Hindi and she learned to speak sentences in English. She had a keen, if untrained intellect, which although without a formal education beyond two years of primary school, absorbed information amazingly well. Through her I saw the India I had wanted to see, the one many people turn away from as if it doesn't exist.

Chhaya might die! My fears returned and I sat up abruptly, realizing someone had tapped me on the shoulder. It was a nurse in her starched white coat peering at me. She asked me to follow her and took me to the critical care ward, behind a curtain.

There lay Chhaya, like a battered and bandaged doll, with her eyes closed.
Her thin arms lay helplessly beside her, each with needles hooked to intravenous medication bottles hanging on either side. She wasn't dead, thank goodness! I felt the relief flow through my own veins and somehow knew she would survive.

Her mother sat at the foot of the bed, and upon seeing me, she jumped up and patted the spot for me to sit. I touched her shoulder and thanked her. Holding one of her hands in mine, which somehow comforted me, I sat down and watched the gentle rise and fall of Chhaya's chest as she breathed. She would not wake for a while, I was told, but her condition was stable.

Still holding Chhaya's mother's hand, I began to feel the intense anxiety of the last six hours slowly being replaced by hope and relief. I could hear the mother praying in soft tones, and even though I couldn't understand a word, my heart joined in the rhythm and emotion of maternal instinct. I knew Chhaya would live.