willful nomad

how tenuous,
these tethers wrapped around our wrists and ankles,
and yet how unforgiving--
the strands that have bound us loosely
have kept us from entirely floating away,
but we have chosen to body them, name them
books and borders.

I could see the light from car headlamps reflecting colours onto the street but I couldn't figure out where the colours were coming from. When I looked up from the sms ad my mobile phone was broadcasting they caught my eye: a boy of about five or six was standing in the middle of one of Delhi's busiest streets--Inner Ring Road--holding thirty-odd balloons on a stick.

What I've realized living as an expat is that what was once baffling and strange can become almost common place. Almost.

I'm used to boys and men standing at the car window in the middle of the day hawking the latest issue of The Economist or illegially printed copies of Midnight's Children. That is, when the drivers have decided to obey the traffic signals.

I've seen women selling giant plastic statues of Ganesha covered in a lifetime's supply of glitter, or bowls full of jelly balls that expand in water (the purpose of which is as yet undetermined). My mother even bought sixteen boxes of facial tissue from a boy in the street one afternoon, most of which we still have months later.

But I wasn't ready for this. It's a phrase I've used so many times in Delhi.

He was barely tall enough to see into the sedan window, but there he was, a few cars ahead, peering through the glass with his stick full of colourful balloons.

It was dark.

The street was filled with post-work Delhi traffic (a nightmare by anyone's standards).

And, as far as I could tell, he was alone.

It's not like this lone boy in the street is an unusual sight, either. My heart has made several mad dashes to my throat as I've watched tiny children play in the street, not yet old enough to understand the consequences of being hit by one of those wheeled boxes they've likely never ridden in.

It was something about the balloons. When he finally gave up on that driver in front of us and turned around, all I could see was his silhouette, backlit by the headlamps on the other side of the intersection and holding what are supposed to be symbols of fun and excitement and innocence. But he wasn't at a birthday party or in line to ride an elephant at the circus. He didn't have cotton candy in the other hand. He was out there hawking balloons to passing drivers, hoping for a few rupees that he would likely take back to the pimp/family member who had sent him into the street in the first place.

The light turned green and traffic began to move around the tiny salesman. He ducked through a gap in the cars and perched on the raised median that held the traffic light. I didn't get a good look at his face as we passed, turning right under the flyover and onto the street that would eventually take us home.

As we rounded the corner it became clear to me that he wasn't alone. There, on the median that had been blocked from view by the concrete pillars of the flyover, another fifty people sat, stood, and laid around, many of them carrying similar or larger bunches of balloons.

Sometimes this city is tragic. Sometimes its strength is inspiring. And sometimes it's just downright bizarre. Had I not been in Delhi, the sight of hundreds of balloons being lit by the glare of headlamps and poorly powered incandescent street lights would have convinced me that I had left home for the Twilight Zone.

But no, this is just Delhi, where sometimes, even when you think you've seen it all, you're presented with proof that you really, really haven't.