Samosas

The sight of garbage. The sounds of cackling. Loud. Rowdy. Smells of fish and of rot. Smoke wafting out of open windows. Clouds hanging low. Light peering in through cracks in the thick cloud carpet. The taste of biryani in that smoke. You could touch the filth and feel the area throbbing with life. Pure. Unfiltered. Merry. Life.

Have and have not is a matter of perspective. These people did not have much or in some cases, anything - from the perspective of most outsiders, at least. But for them, it was the world. This was their world. And it wasn’t that they hadn’t seen the trappings of power and luxury. A lot of the women worked in houses that were spread out over kanals. Huge. Towering. Mansions. Housed four or five. And then a separate quarter for servants. Here, rooms had to house five - at least. They had seen the world in all its opulence. But for them, this was their world.

This stinky neighborhood. Where the men sometimes peed outside, dogs marking their territories, or because the bathrooms just worse than the open air. Or crowded.

This crowded neighborhood. Where there was barely space to live, and very little to breathe.

This loud neighborhood. Too much noise. But this was their home. The noise gave it life. Unlike the silence of the rich, where their money bought them ‘peace’. Wouldn’t you get that when you were dead, anyways?

This colorful neighborhood. Sure, their clothes might be old and worn down. But there were rich, vibrant colors everywhere. The houses. The stalls of food. The clothes.

This neighborhood that smelled of biryani and food. Made the heart warm. Of the inhabitants.

This was their home. This was where their children grew up and played on the streets with makeshift balls. Smiles on their faces were genuine. Skinny. Long limbs. But smiling, sparkling eyes. Grimy hands. Nails long. Dirt caking underneath them. Laughter real and loud. Not forced. Stomachs sometimes growling with hunger. But minds free. Real, adult worries in their heads. But also freedom from them. This was their home. This was their life. They didn’t have much. But having and not having is a matter of perspective, and these children, they had the world. It was all right here. Right here in the smiles of their friends. In the hugs they gave one another, and the insults thrown around casually. The ones that caused loud smiles and even louder laughter. This was their life. And to be quite honest, they loved it. Sometimes, their fathers were useless. They were good for nothing. Just another mouth to feed. And all the kids swore they would never be like that. Their mothers could not raise them or give them time. So what they would turn into was really up in the air. They were each other’s keepers. And some years could be bad. Some could be good. Each batch depended. It seemed like random rolls of the die of fate. Life was such.