in parentheses

Marco Etheridge is a writer, occasional playwright, and part-time poet. He lives in Austria. His writing has been published around the globe. When not crafting stories, Marco is a contributing editor and layout grunt for a new ‘Zine called Hotch Potch. Website: https://www.marcoetheridgefiction.com/

Works by M. Etheridge have been previously featured by In Parentheses.

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Look Away

I told them not to look, but too late. The sight of the beggar girl froze them midstep as if they’d smacked into a brick wall of misery. Two Western women turned into statues on the streets of Bangalore.

“Oh shit, Billy, look at her face!”

“I think I’m going to puke.”

The beggar kid stared up at Kat and Marjorie, her right eye shifting between their stricken faces. Ropes of scar tissue masked the beggar’s left eye socket, livid white worms against her dusky skin. The kid waved one hand in the torpid air, back and forth, as if charming a toothless cobra.

I put a hand between each of their shoulder blades and shoved.

“Walk. You can’t stop for every beggar.”

They had to look away or fall forward. They looked away, two well-fed Westerners, each taller than anyone else in the crowded market street. I took one step after them, then stopped.

I spun and palmed a hundred rupee note into the girl’s outstretched hand.

“Salaam Baalak.”

Hello, street kid. Her good eye went wide. I knew she wouldn’t see a single rupee for herself. Her minder was watching, had already spotted that note changing hands. One hundred rupees was a good haul in a single go. The beggar mafia might spare the kid her nightly beating. Maybe even feed her as a reward. Maybe.

Three quick steps and I was behind Kat and Marjorie, slipping between them and steering their way. Kat tried a half smile when I put my hands on their shoulders.

“God, Billy, I don’t know how you stand it. Sometimes this place is just awful.”

Marjorie clutched my hand tight against her shoulder, biting her lip to hold back her tears.

“Hey, c’mon, who are my two strong girls? You can’t let it get to you. Tomorrow, you’ll be on a plane out of here. Today, you’ve got a stack of rupees to spend. Who’s ready to do some shopping?”

I guided them past rows of open-front shops no bigger than a walk-in closet. The proprietors, all men, sang out their greetings.

“Hello, Madam, please step inside my shop.”

Marjorie gushed over a bronze statue of Ganesha. Kat struck a bad bargain for an embroidered bag, then more souvenirs to fill it. Each purchase seemed to push the image of the beggar girl further from their minds.

Ten minutes later, Marjorie and Kat were chattering like happy birds. Two besties offering cheap baubles to each other as if they were the palace jewels. They left behind a trail of rupees and smiling merchants.

Kat spotted a line of food carts and nudged me.

“I’m starving, Billy. What’s safe to eat?”

I smiled, my eyes on the full flesh of her cheeks, smooth and rosy. Sure, starving.

Small brown men clustered around the carts. They wore loose shirts over dhotis, whip-thin legs bare down to their black sandals. A skinny chaiwallah in a stained wife-beater hunkered over his cauldron, ladling out milky tea. Heat waves shimmered above a chaat cart, where another guy wielded a wooden paddle over a smoking hot iron plate.

“There, the chaat stand. Indian snacks.”

Kat pointed to another stall.

“There’s no line at that one.”

I nodded and pushed her hand down.

“Try not to point, Kat. Let’s stick to the busy guy, okay? Busy means his customers live to eat another day.”

Marjorie giggled, clutching her bag of swag.

“Oh, I get it. Busy is a good sign. Order us something, Billy.”

I steered my girls to the cart.

A magical current parted the knot of men, the force field of two Western women. Everyone stared. I stepped into the wall of heat. The chaat guy raised his unsmiling face.

“Namaste. Chana dal.”

I held up three fingers. The vendor gave me the head wobble. He snapped a sheet of newspaper from a stack and rolled a paper cone. The paddle dipped and lifted a precise scoop of steaming chickpeas.

He pointed to a bowl piled high with chopped onions, coriander, lime, and chopped chilies. The fixings. I nodded. The chaat vendor dosed the chana dal and held it out. I took the cone and passed it back to Kat. Two more followed. The silent chorus line watched every move.

I held my chana dal, felt the hot oil seeping through the cheap newsprint. The guy took my banknote, and I waved off the change.

“Kripaya.”

Another unsmiling head wobble. No thank you in return. The head wobble sealed the deal. Foreigners smiled. Hopeful merchants smiled, and kids on the hustle. Working men did not smile, nor did beggars. Not required, not expected.

I let my charges away from the staring eyes.

Marjorie and Kat held the greasy cones away from their sleek bodies, elbowing back their stuffed shoulder bags. They giggled at each other while scarfing hot tidbits with oil-stained fingers.

“This is hard to eat, Billy. Can we sit down?”

The market swirled past us. Women in bright saris and brown midriffs, market boys hauling laden bags in their wake. The air thick with piled spice, cooking smoke, fetid vegetable cuttings, and the sweet smell of rot.

“Sorry, girls, no place to sit.”

I guided them out of the market. They strolled and noshed while I kept a sharp eye out for beggars. These two had seen enough for one day, their last day in India.

Tomorrow, a taxi would carry them to the airport. Back home, the women would regale girlfriends with tales of exotic travel and treasures.

I remained in Bangalore with four months on my contract. Summer fell upon the city, heat pounding like a blacksmith hammering hot iron.

Alone again, I wandered the streets and markets, soaked in the kaleidoscopic whirl, the contradictions of garlands and garbage, perfume and stench, splendor and squalor. Every sound, smell, and sight crept back under my skin.

My eyes opened to the pain of maimed beggar girls, and I did not look away.

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