A Circus Show No One Wants To Watch

The car came to a sudden stop. Police. A road block. We are in a compact TATA SUV, the air condition struggles to cool the four western adults as the merciless Indian sun glares down on our roof. The outside melange of industrial fumes, human sweat, feces and an olfactory explosion of far eastern curries continue to yank my senses into a hyperactive state struggling to make sense of this world. A cow waltzes along, colorfully braided collars decorate its dusty coat. Rickshaws and seemingly 100-year-old bicycles are a balancing act of good fortune in this mad traffic circus. 

Purposefully disfigured children, dressed in rags, are the star act of our circus, performing and begging at my window for money. But I can’t seem to care. What do the cops want? A dog, a poor dog, a side act, is dragging its hind legs on the burning concrete. Its skin is coming off, red flesh is exposed; it will not last to see the sunset. I can’t help but think that this dog is the product of a poor innocent female dog gang raped by horney dogs. This place is brutal in every sense.


I am not enjoying this show. The men, the officers, in dust covered curry colored police rags are banging their sticks on our window. Mr. Singh speaks in Hindi and hands them three German passports, arguing loudly. Too much head shaking. I can’t figure out which shaking means no, and which shaking means yes.  “…go to the station,…don’t have your passport…!” I struggle to understand.

“Anna is not to leave this car. Under any circumstance. You understand Mr. Singh? If she goes to the station…” I tune out and find a grotesque calmness in the sight of the dying dog. “…then I will be like that dog's mother. Flesh, ripped, raped,I tune out and find a grotesque calmness in the sight of the dying dog. “…then I will be like that dogs mother. Flesh, ripped, raped, disfigured, abused and tossed… my mind travel gets interrupted by exchange of dollar bills. I discovered my life is worth $500.