a story

"Mein bukha hun. Mein bukha..."

Unable to speak anything but Hindi, she rubs her belly weakly, and then stretches out an open palm, a living skeleton's hand. Her fifth son - the youngest - whom she named Mahan, pathetically clings to her worn-out sari and tries in vain to suckle from her wizened breast, dried up by living in the streets for too long.

The tourist thoughtlessly throws her a half-eaten sandwich, and after barely glancing at her, moves on. She scrambles up the temple stairs, reaching for it. From nowhere, hairy paws suddenly assail her: monkeys. She does not resist. The langur monkeys, fattened by the temple priests' libations, wrest the sandwich from her feeble hands, and quickly devour their prize.

Trembling, she mutters a prayer to appease Hanuman, the revered simian god of the temple. She cuddles her whimpering son, whispering to him a well-known legend about Hanuman's exploits.

She then goes back to the corner where she had sat since more than a year ago. Her son falls asleep on the makeshift cardboard mat they had salvaged from a garbage bin. Her other children beg not far from where they stay, four blocks away. And she waits for them, for a scrap of food that can be spared for her most precious Mahan. Patiently, she waits.

The tourist goes back to his bus, his camera full of photos of the temple. He grins contentedly as he recollects the impossible bargain he acquired from a vendor - an "authentic" Boddhistava bronze icon for just 200 rupees, a little less than 5 dollars.

"The sights in India are magnificent, aren't they?" he asks his seatmate.