Classes

I trip over a jagged rock sticking three inches out from the earth in the middle of an unpaved street. As I'm catching my balance and wondering what happens when that mistake is made on a motorcycle, Priya calls to me to catch up. I look ahead and see her standing in front of the door to one of our community hubs, hidden down an alley in a town whose name is 15 letters long.

Up a steep and narrow flight of stairs is a room with 20 or so computers. A few boys and an instructor sit around them working away on an outdated version of Photoshop. Graphic design is one of the classes offered at no charge to the boys and girls in the area so that they can find real work after graduation. The current job placement rate for the center is somewhere around 70%. This is part of Oasis’ holistic approach to community healing. They understand that human trafficking is only part of the problem, a symptom really, and if they are going to help a city it will take radical change on every level. 

The boys look and stare as I close the door behind me. I’m partially used to the staring, having been what feels like the only white skinned, green eye’d person in India for two weeks, but it never fails to make me self conscious. Later in the afternoon when we go to Coffee Day for lunch (their Starbucks equivalent) we wait in line to order and three feet away a man’s eyes are locked on me. I try hard not to laugh at the absurdity of it all, but eventually I’m forced to turn away to let out a bemused grin. It’s a stare that knows you don’t belong. It’s not meant to be aggressive, but the typical Indian resting expression is not exactly welcoming. One tourist online dubbed it ‘The Indian Murder Stare’ and it’s easy to see why. But it always switches to a big grin after introductions are made, usually followed by a hundred questions about your family.

One of the boys looks up and says something that sounds like ‘Sweet aim’.

The instructor tells me he’s asking what my name is.

Daniel, I say.

Instantly the other boys turn in their chairs and with excited smiles start introducing themselves. Despite repeating them out loud, the names quickly vaporize in my mind, each too foreign to attach to anything familiar. 

One of the younger boys in the Microsoft Office class can’t wait to show off a Powerpoint presentation he’s made on different types of dinosaurs. His hand rests on the mouse clicking through each slide but his face watches mine waiting to see…something. What I think? Approval maybe? I don’t know, but I keep saying, “Cool, very cool” as images of Raptors and T-Rexes slide, flash and dissolve on the Lenovo monitor. And I mean it-the nine year old in me always loves a good dinosaur slideshow. We spend a few hours with the kids and I help Priya write a proposal to expand several hubs. 

On the way back our rickshaw comes to a stop at one of the rare stoplights in Bangalore. They’re so uncommon that an alarm sounds before the lights change to warn the more brake-adverse motorists. A few lanes away a sweating, young girl no older than twelve walks from car to car offering trinkets for sale. Priya points her out to me. 

“She’s one of the trafficked girls we’re trying to rescue.”

I ask how she knows her. 

“I take this route every week. I’ve talked to her at this stoplight several times. I told her we can help her, but she refuses to give me any information about herself. She’s scared, you can tell. Her handlers are probably watching.”

My brain jams up as it tries to find something to say, so I just watch her as she pushes a box of tissues towards a rolled-up window. My thoughts are white noise. This is the first time I’ve come face to face with what I’ve flown 9000 miles to write about and I can’t get a word out. A loud ringing suddenly fills the streets, rousing cars and jerking me back from reality. The lights change and our rickshaw lurches forward to rejoin the river of traffic.