Most popular street kid...

It is close to midnight here in Bharat, and the construction workers next door are still working away. Other then the beggars that knock on car windows, construction workers are the poorest of the poor. Mamas and Papas work from morning to night, while their babies sleep on dirty tarps under trees, and their older barefooted children run around the neighborhood looking for entertainment. Unfortunately, they do not go to school. The workers make EVERYTHING by hand, including bricks, with limited tools. Women wear saris while balancing bowls of sand, and bricks on their heads. Their agility breathe taking. Their strength unfathomable. Yesterday, I took pictures and filmed the women at work. I showed them their pictures and they shrieked in disbelief. They pointed at themselves, while other untouchables came up to me with their children in their arms asking me if I could take their picture. The women and I tried our best to have a conversation. They laughed and pointed at my clothes and said, “No sari?” I explained to them that in Canada women don’t wear saris; they roared of laughter and accused me of wearing the same clothes as their children. A pair of pants and a t-shirt. I asked them how many rupees they made a day, and they informed me 18. For those of you who are unaware of the dollar rupee conversion that is 45 cents A DAY! They make 45 cents a day!!! After talking for a few minutes, the women pointed to my house and encouraged me to go home. “Sun hot. Not good for your skin.” Probably because I am White. I said good-bye, entered my house, and visited Nitya. Nitya and I needed some clothes to be ironed so I ran back outside to get them pressed. In India, there are tin shacks in wealthy neighborhoods where men iron the neighborhoods’ clothes (the workers use big metal irons full of hot coals to press). As I walked across the street to deliver our items, my house’s servants ran after me in disbelief. Normally, I wouldn’t dare hand deliver items – because it’s below me – but obviously I do not follow India’s rules and fend for myself. Fortunately, one of the ironers spoke English and he was able to introduce me to his daughter. As I waited for him to press my clothes, the construction workers kids, the street kids, peered around the corner to look at me. For the past couple of days, I have been a hot commodity on the block since I am White, I take their picture, smile, and wave. This time I thought it would be even better if I took it a step further and chased them. Shocked, they ran away screaming and laughing. I tickled their skinny bellies – and they ran away for more. They loved it – their parents more. After playing, I returned to the ironing shack. I thanked the gentleman, and he said “you are welcome sister”. Sister I am. We are ALL equal.