I didn’t expect my 15 hour layover in Kolkata to be life changing, but it was.
My plane dipped down into the smog of the city mid morning. I made my way through the airport, grabbed my newly mangled luggage (instead of 4 wheels, it now wobbles with 3) and got a pre-paid taxi. I peered out of the 1960s era taxi as the streets and people zoomed by. There were women washing clothes in water spewing from pipes in the sidewalk, children running with cricket bats and men pulling rickshaws.
I made it to my room on the 5th floor of the small hotel, and collapsed on the bed. The fan pushed stale air over my head. I debated where I should go first in the city. People had recommend seeing the river and the flower market, but I was nervous about getting back in a taxi with the language barrier, so I opted to walk around.
I was on the tourists street, but it’s not what you think a tourist street would be. I saw 4 other foreigners – that quadrupled the normal amount, but still, not what I thought. Being on the tourist street set me up to encounter more beggars than other parts of the city. I was mentally prepared for this. Women came up to me, asking for milk for a dry baby bottle. I knew sadly there was likely not a baby and they didn’t really want milk. I would look at the women, say a quick “sorry” and keep walking.
Four times through the day I went in and out of my hotel. I never went too far, paranoid about getting lost. Around 8pm, I went out for the last time. I had my camera on my neck, my room key in one pocket and 100 Rupees (the equivalent of $1.50) in the other.
I recorded the bare feet of men as they pull the rickshaws through the streets, the chai tea steaming as it’s poured into clay cups and the blinking lights that hung over my street. I decided to get a little street food – specifically a veggie panini. (This was extra glorious because, well, it wasn’t rice.)
I was smitten from a good walk and carrying my little panini back to my hotel. Less than 100 ft from the hotel door, I saw three ladies sitting on the curb. One called out, “Sorry girl!!” I turned since this was in English and I saw one of the ladies motioning her hand towards her mouth, the universal sign for food. I kept walking, realizing they’d named me “Sorry girl”, because at different times in the day I had said sorry to each of them.
Ten feet from my hotel door I stopped. I looked down at my sandwich. I turned around the way I came and strolled up to the ladies on the curb. One said, “Sorry girl! You came back to us!” I smiled and bent down, and asked if they’d like to share my sandwich with me. They smiled, said yes and created a spot for me between them on the curb.
We ate the sandwich and began to chat. The lady on my right, named Gita, asked if she could give me henna on my hand. She was insistent and I didn’t want it. I didn’t want to be the tourist that got henna – too cliche for me. We went back and forth. I kept saying I didn’t have the money (a normal excuse), but truthfully I didn’t have it on me. But she was adamant.
I was about to give her the small change I had in order to NOT get henna when Gita said that she didn’t actually care how much money I had, she wanted to give me henna as her friend. Because I sat next to her and shared food, we were friends. She explained that people always see her as needing charity, but she likes to give as well. She took my 30 Rupees, which was less than a tenth of what she wanted to charge me and started drawing with the henna paint on my left hand.
While she was working another tourist walked up to us. She seemed American and around 20 years old. She asked where I was from and if she could take my photo. I didn’t care if she took it (that’s quite normal for strangers to take a photo with foreigners in India), but Gita had another opinion.
In seconds, Gita was angry and she spoke sternly to the girl, saying that she didn’t want her photo taken. She said that people “take from her and post it in a newspaper and she never sees the benefit.” The girl was bewildered and stepped back. I shrugged, said sorry to the girl, and she walked about.
I continued to sit there after my henna was done. The ladies continued to tell me about their lives – their deceased husbands, their children outside the city depending on their bagging money and their wishes for education. I spoke about my job, why I was there and why I have such a large camera.
I showed Gita a photo on my camera screen of a beautiful women that was a wife to a pastor in a village I had recently visited. The woman washed my feet in gratitude for visiting their church for 20 minutes, and the experience had made me cry. She let me take her portrait to remember that special moment. Her golden eyes pierced the photo. I continued through other photos for a few more minutes.
After talking for a half hour, I explained I had to go back to my hotel room for rest – my next flight was only a 4 hour nap away. As I stood, Gita grabbed my hand. She asked me to wait. At that moment I realized she had taken her hair out of her braid. She said, “Please. You take my picture like that other beautiful woman?”
I was so surprised. Minutes before, she had yelled at girl for trying to take her picture and now she asked me. I said, “Of course,” and knelt down in front of her. I took a video portrait and a still picture. I turned the camera around and let her see. I exclaimed that she looked incredible. The smile snuck out of the corner of her mouth, and then she couldn’t hold it back and we laughed together.
Gita is Hindu, but said she was thankful for what “my Jesus” was doing in her country. I explained that he wasn’t “mine”, but for everyone. She agreed, but was very timid about furthering the conversation. I asked if we could pray together, and she agreed. We prayed for her family and her health. Soon after I said goodbye and climbed back up the stairs to my hotel room.
I laid in bed, feeling sticky with the air from the street and thinking about Gita. My experience with her got to the core of a fundamental belief of mine.
At it’s worst, taking a photo is just that: taking. A camera is a barrier between you and the person in front of you.
At its best a photo brings honor. It captures a moment of beauty in another person that can now live forever.
Gita knew that. People had stolen from her enough times to make her swell with anger at the idea of a picture. But after we were friends, after I knew pieces of her story and who she was, I was able to honor her – and that is absolutely what she deserves.
I will never forget Gita, her story and the lesson she taught me.
