The best place

MaschataDiop

by MaschataDiop

Story

There lies a newborn baby. Wrapped in a few white cloths. On the stones of the pavement. In a busy shopping street in a city in northern India. At least it looks like a newborn. As tiny as the child is. I stand in front of a photo shop and wait for my travelling companions to finish their shopping. Women in colourful saris, others in Punjabi garb, men in loose trousers and long-sleeved shirts, children in T-shirts and plastic slippers, push past me. I stare at the baby lying asleep near the entrance of a shop. Why is it lying there? Where are its parents? It can’t be that a child is just lying there. All alone. I feel the looks of the shopkeepers around me. They look at the tourist who is looking at the baby. Whispering. Waving their arms. Looking towards the roadside. Only now do I notice that there is a small group of people squatting in the blazing sun. They are obviously offering goods for sale. I cannot see what they are selling. The backs of the crouching people cover them. But I see that they are rather poorly dressed. They look startled at the shopkeeper waving fiercely, and his hand chasing away. Only now do I understand the situation and turn my head in the opposite direction, away from the newborn. For the family has thoughtfully placed the baby in the best possible place at the moment: in the shade in front of the shop. The owner has graciously overlooked it. But a staring white tourist can cause problems.

© MaschataDiop 2021-05-17