Walk
Every road in this part of town has two sides. Not a right and a left side, dear reader (you innocent, you). A right side and a wrong side. On the right side is where we live. People like us. Tax paying, civic minded, educated. The ones who matter. Our lawns are watered. Our trees bloom benevolently. Our cars are shiny and washed. All is right on our side of the road. Forgive the double pun.
I walked on the wrong side of the road this evening instead. The one without the pavement, where the garbage is left uncleared. Here’s what I know:
A little girl, thin and grey skinned, carries a heavy pot of water on her head. Her mother walks briskly ahead, a Jerry can hanging heavily from one hand and a pot in the crook of the other arm.
A stench from the garbage bins outside the tiny playground. Another little girl sits on the broken swing, watching the world go by. She hums a tuneless ditty to herself.
A stretch of curiously lopsided yet balanced homes. Each house is built up to a mezzanine floor
which doubles up as shops or restaurants or some other puzzling enterprise. A banyan and a peepal tree grow as one near the end of this stretch, tilting a little precariously, acting as laundry line, aerial cable support and storage area.
An opening to the little beach. The boats ride the evening water and the breeze blows away the ever present stench of stale oil, musty monsoon footwear and dirt. A little fish market flourishes here. Three elderly ladies swat at the crows, the cats, the chickens and the six muddy ducks. Ducks! Shifty faced, foraging in the garbage, not a quack between them. The fish is fresh and bright eyed but the water behind the stalls is choked with garbage.
A chicken stall. The chickens are tiny and huddled together in a petrified heap. The women haggle fiercely with the shopkeeper slaughterer over the price of their evening meal. The cats lounging around look well fed and sleek.
The delicious smell of fried fish. My senses are warring now between a gag reflex at the garbage stench and the mouth watering smell of spiced fish. The gag reflex wins. Further down is a huge garbage dumpyard. The trucks are just arriving after their evening run on the right side of the road and the rich, fermenting, green smell is strong enough to taste, and makes my eyes water.
Beautiful, neglected parks now appear. Huge trees strung with creepers, dark ferns crowding their roots. Empty walking paths, broken benches wait endlessly for the people who never come. Securely padlocked against their neighbours and intruders, these bear names that can never be successfully translated into a local language, such as C______ Greens and C________ Woods.
As I turn the corner, the wrong side of the road magically switches sides. A Labrador out on his evening walk sports bright green booties on his dainty paws and sniffs me disdainfully. He can smell the stench on me. I smile apologetically and hurry past him.