I’ve been keeping a record of these random scenes from day to day life in my shiny new Moleskin notebook, a gift from the supercool Brandon and Mel. I’ll be posting them from time to time:

A family of three speeds by on a motorcycle, barely an inch away from our auto-rickshaw. The woman sits towards the back holding an infant and I laugh thinking about the outbreak of justifiable panic that would erupt if this were to happen back home.

A Muslim girl walks towards me, her face covered with only sharp, stoic eyes peering out. Suddenly they contort, she stops walking and her hand rushes to cover her mouth.
With a shake of her head and a sonic boom a sneeze breaks free.

I step onto my patio Sunday morning and pull an undershirt off the clothes line. I put it on and the thin cotton is warm from the still rising sun.

I walk into a restaurant during what happens to be one of the biggest cricket games of the year.  India versus their former countrymen of Pakistan. The game is projected on the wall and to me it's chaos but all eyes are aimed at the screen.  I assume India has won when the room explodes into hugging and cheering.

A coworker kindly offers to buy me breakfast.
With my last bite an insect surfaces
in the small bowl of cilantro chutney
I've been dipping rice flower cakes into.

Chickens wander about, unknowingly stalked by orange kittens. Pots smoke and steam over open flames. Men in undershirts eye us suspiciously from doorsteps and flies stir with every step like angry dust clouds.  The slums of India are a spider web of alleyways studded with doors that open to small rooms expected to house a family.

Jessica, a staff member visiting from our UK base, and I are here to record a video interview with the parents of one of our students.

He was making friends with the gangs when we found him. In three days he'll graduate from our Photoshop and digital design program having cast off his old life, criminal aspirations and all. Two of his teachers, Rohit and Gita, lead us to his parent's home. 

Ten minutes into our trek and Rohit stops suddenly to look around. He takes in the neighborhood.

"Okay let's go different ways now. Gita, take Jessica and I'll take Daniel. We'll meet at the house."

As we take a quick left turn I ask why we're splitting up.

"I don't want people noticing us. Sometimes when they see a group of foreigners walking around they think something is happening and start gathering. That can turn bad very quickly."

As we continue through the narrow streets a group of young boys run up to Rohit, shouting to him in Tamil. He laughs and grabs one by the cheek, giving him a quick shake before letting him go. The boy reorients himself as his friends hit their knees in laughter.

"Those kids are in one of my classes," he says, walking away. "They're great."

 Rohit tells me that he himself was once a student in Oasis' program.

"I was considering suicide for a long time before I started," he says as casually as if he were talking about the weather.

And it's no wonder. Suicide amongst the youth is a massive and common problem in the city. During Jessica's first week here an 18 year old girl living in her building hung herself. She left the water running in the shower. Her husband found her.

Rohit tells me more about his life and upbringing, ending with: "But through Oasis I've found Christ and now I'm married and I have a daughter."

He smiles and looks down the road ahead of us. I feel a hope that is often hard to find out here. It's easy to compare the number of victims against the number of people reached by Oasis. It's an ocean filled with statistics waiting for you to slip in and drown. But here, now, a history has been changed. Altered forever. That has to count for something.

We finally arrive at a bright blue door and wait for Jessica and Gita to catch up.

It's been getting warmer lately as India enters its summer season. The sun beats down without humility.  A stray dog trots past us covered in yellow and pink paint; a reluctant participant of today's Holi Day celebrations.

Once reunited we make our way up a flight of cement stairs so narrow they would effectively keep a fat burglar out and barely squeeze into the single-room house. To give some perspective, the entirety of the space would maybe fill half of an American bedroom. As we sit on whatever make-shift chairs we can find one of the daughters materializes holding a tray with metal cups full of Coke. Her sister follows with spiced cookies. Their father smiles proudly. He took the day off of work just to talk with us today; no small sacrifice for him and his family.

"Eat! Drink!," our host declares. This isn't the first time I've witnessed such hospitality. No matter how little a family has they will eagerly place it in front of any random guest who walks through their door. I'm beginning to think that being inconvenienced by another person is purely a Western concept.  

After much discourse we finally begin the interview. As the parents speak about the changes they've seen in their son's life, the youngest daughter climbs onto a stool in the background and starts vigorously picking her nose. The mother is speaking so passionately and I don't want to interrupt so I just decide to move the girl for the second take. My camera battery dies before we get the chance so I hope our audience has a sense of humor.

As we leave, the entire family comes out to wave us goodbye. The sun is setting and the slums are quickly becoming unsafe for outsiders. We hurry through the dusty roads and catch the first rickshaw we see.  

Vishnu

Saturday I went out and did touristy things and took touristy photos of it.
Click on to see them.

Alms

I sit down on a red pleather couch to take break from the authentic Indian experience that has filled my last couple of weeks to get back in touch with my roots. “Oh Krispy Kreme,” I whisper before taking a bite of the shiny pastry. “Take me home.”

Yes, the diabetic arm of the American empire reaches even here. 

In the background My Chemical Romance and Keane blast from mounted speakers, taking me back to Southern California circa 2005 and I’m loving every second of it.  

It’s 8 p.m. and I’m meeting with Chris, one of the heads from Oasis Global, and our Communications Director, Reena, to go over a new media strategy. Unlike a lot of non-profits, which spend thousands on publicity and only hundreds on their cause, Oasis India has the opposite problem. So much is being done through their numerous community centers and rehabilitation homes but a combination of time constraint and the unwieldy English language means that most will never hear about it. This is where I’m hoping to contribute.

Chris leaves to order a coffee, offering to buy us a cup as well. I agree, knowing full well I’ll be up all night but craving something familiar: a meeting over coffee. It’s the little things. 

When he returns he’s carrying a box of a dozen donuts. Glazed, fruit filled, sprinkled-the works. Four for each of us. This British man has severely underestimated the richness, the sweetness, the ungodly caloric density of American donuts. Four of these could kill a small horse. I pick the chocolate one and bite into it. 

As Chris talks about the upcoming annual report, two small boys appear in the giant window behind him. Their clothes look years older than they do. One is holding a bundle of small, red roses, no doubt selling them for some unseen power. With eyes wide the pair begins jumping up and down pointing at our box of multicolored pastries. 

Before long Chris realizes he’s lost our attention and turns to see who the culprits are. He smiles to himself and looks down at the box. “Well we might as well. We’re not going to eat all of these.”

Reena agrees, waving the boys over to us and in three short seconds they’re by our table reaching for the desserts. Reena stops them, saying something in Hindi. The boys ignore her, arms stretched past her. She repeats the last phrase again, stern but friendly. Still jumping they finally shout the Hindi word for ‘please’. Happy with their response she hands them two donuts, one chocolate, the other glazed. As they dash back towards the door one of them turns around and quickly throws a kiss in our direction.

Before we can get back to the matters at hand, the two boys return, this time with a small girl in tow. A long yellow dress reaches up from the floor towards her visibly dirty face. They point her towards the box between us. Chris, who spent 20 years living in Bangalore, should have seen this coming. 

But before he can do anything, the security guard catches sight of the scene unfolding (a lot of establishments here have security guards. On an unrelated note, I don’t know if I’ve seen any police in this country). After three quick strides he grabs the girl by the arm and starts pulling her away, empty-handed. 

Oh but he underestimates her. 

With a sharp tug and a twist the girl breaks free and runs back to us, her arms outstretched wide, her smile wider. Reena quickly sneaks her the bright, sprinkled donut before the guard regains his grip. 

As he shoves the trio out the door he gives each of them a sharp smack on the head, but it hardly registers. They have the sugar-saturated alms they came for. Before slipping off into the night they slap their hands against the window and wave to us one last time. 

Chris chuckles at the chaos. “I’m sure they come to this window every night looking for suckers like us.”

I nod my head in agreement. Reena does too, smiling.

We push away the underlying reality of the scene and allow ourselves to focus on their joy for a few minutes. 

 I don’t think we mind being tonight’s suckers.

Shades

  Yea those Ray Bans you got are pretty cool, I guess, but what about these Roy & Bons? 

Huzzah

Many thanks to Justin and Katie Evans for this awesome reminder of home and that there's always money in the banana stand.

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.