Sari Shopping in the Slums

A sour smell stings my nostrils and the ground beneath me is steeped in filth and  mud. The field is devoid of streetlights and houses and I vow not to ruminate about what I'm stepping through.  I've followed a dark-skinned street vendor named Amishi to her home on the promise of cheap saris. We've walked up an incline and stop at one of many open enclosures, little more than oval tents, with bits of clothes and fabrics sewn together for shelter. My neck cranes around in bewilderment and I try not to gape at the realization that I've stumbled alone, at night, into the slums of India.

Amishi calls out in Hindi and motions me to come inside as she lights a lamp. As the light flickers on, another figure emerges out of the darkness. A woman sits crossed legged on the floor bearing an ancient face. The deep lines etched into her coffee colored skin speak of a harsh and demanding life. She sits adorned in silver rings and bracelets and draped in bright pinks and oranges that seemed to illuminate the desperate surroundings. Grandmother turns her head to me and I blink at the hollow lumps where eyes should have been.

A small bundle of matted dark hair and tired eyes materializes and attaches herself to Amishi's skirt. "My baby", she says proudly as she wraps an arm around the small child. I bend down and say hello, but the girl clutches tighter to her mother and only stares at me with  curiosity. Amishi disengages and begins rummaging through the dark recesses of the tent.

I sit gingerly on a large woven frame, and give a halting hello to Grandmother. She tilts her head in acknowledgment but says nothing, and despite her disfigurement, exudes an air of superiority. I paste a thin smile on my face as the full force of the poverty that plagues India sinks into me. The tent is small, and the dirt floor is consumed with boxes of numerous items that Amishi must sell on the street for the family to survive.  My hands rest on a purse full of rupees and my stomach tightens with improbable guilt. I turn away from the little girl who looks at me with dull eyes and try not to stare at Grandmother, both intrigued and intimidated by the maimed matriarch.

A box is set next to me and within moments, a dizzying array of fabrics of every hue and pattern imaginable are laid on my lap. I flip through them until a vibrant red cloth catches my eye. Glittering yellow, green, and brown leaves sprout along the cheap cotton, and a luminescent orange thread is stitched throughout. My eyes trace the explosion of colors, drawn to the chaotic miscellany that, like much of India, somehow blends together creating unexpected beauty.

I set the sari aside and pull out a fabric tucked at the bottom of the pile. It is stiff heavy satin, an expanse of pale blue sky bordered in delicate golden filigree. It dazzles in my hands and feels regale and out of place in the ramshackle tent.  "How much?" I look up and ask quickly, grasping my finds. Amishi takes the saris and hands them to her mother. Like a seer consulting an oracle, Grandmother's gnarled long fingers rub the fabric thoughtfully. After a moment she rumbles hoarse unfamiliar words and Amishi translates, "She say, five hundred." "Four-fifty." I shoot back, haggling more out of custom than need. Grandmother is consulted and after a moment, nods in agreement to the price.

As I stand up to leave Amishi gives me a shy hug while Grandmother clutches the rupees tightly in her hands. I linger at the doorway as a sudden wave of sadness strangles me.  I look down at the colorful fabric, and run a light finger over the blue satin before tucking it gently in my bag.  I look up with a haphazard smile and grasp Amishi's hands."Sister, take care", I say tenderly. She looks into my eyes and squeezes my hands in response. Her daughter tugs at her skirt and as Amishi picks her up, the tired child nestles close to her. They

watch as I move slowly through the darkness, picking my way over trash and past families huddled in tents, back to the streetlight.