In Middlesbrough …
In Middlesbrough, The Beloved and I walk briskly past the pub on Boro Road with its windows either boarded up, or smashed in, then turn right along Linthorpe Road up to where the posh clothes store, Psyche, is. As we enter, two likely lads in baseball caps and tracksuits follow us in, stride purposefully to the nearest rack of designer outfits, grab a large armful each, and stride just as purposefully towards the exit, loaded with Ted Baker, Paul Smith and Lacoste.
No one stops them.
I think of one hot, dry day, not so long ago, in the old fort town of Jaisalmer, India, where I see a young teenager with no legs hoist himself by the elbows along a street to touch the hem of a tourist passing by. The tourist shrieks in disgust, or shock, or both, I'm not sure which; and quickens her pace. I want to take a photo to remind myself of how life can be, how opportunity takes so many forms, but I don't. I'm travelling, not touring.
As we stroll towards the Cleveland Centre, the sun disappears behind a cloud and I begin to doubt my decision-making abilities. What was I thinking, moving to the north of England? Along the pedestrian way, outside the largest Boots I've ever seen, a very thin, chain-smoking man sells today's edition of The Evening Gazette. An abandoned pram is parked nearby. Two community police officers approach. Does the man know where the owner of the pram, and the baby ensconced within it, might be? Or who they are?
No. He does not.
I remember the dust-covered urchin with her mischievous grin, dread-locked hair and upturned, outstretched hand. Greeting me each morning when I dared to venture out from the laneway that hid my hostel from the bustling main bazaar. Couldn't have been more than five. No family, no school.
Further along, closer to the £1 sandwich van, the elderly sit on park benches and flocks of pigeons - dirty, diseased animals that they are - hone in. Without exception, all the elderly under the avine attack are chain smoking.
Further along the centre again, another very slim man with marks up his arms and wielding a cigarette, shouts angrily at a heavily pregnant female, scarcely old enough to be called a woman, who is pushing a stroller and smoking at the same time. "I'M HAVIN' A CONVERSATION 'ERE!" he yells, to anyone who dares glance his way. "WHERE'S MY FOOKIN MOONEY??" he screams at her. She puffs on her cigarette, swears back at him, and resolutely continues walking.
An image flashes into my head of a chaste, sari-covered woman, dragging an unwilling four-year-old by the hand, walking demurely two paces behind her husband. Face covered. Silent as her husband strode through the crowds.
As I instinctively walk closer to The Beloved, down past the train station and along a side street, a car with its alarm going and hazard lights blinking furiously speeds past us with great urgency. I figure it to be stolen. Two minutes later a police patrol car screams past.
I remember my first morning in Paharganj, frustrated at the slow progress of my bicycle rickshaw, determined to know why the four lanes of traffic seemed to have stalled. A cow had taken up residence across three lanes.
I become increasingly morose, and frightened, as I walk through this new town called Middlesbrough I am to live in for the next few years. How will I cope?
I remember what The Beloved said to me after I broke down and revealed I wasn't as tough as I made out and couldn't possibly manage in India without him. I was morose, frightened, fragile.
"One day at a time," he said to me then. "One day at a time."
No one stops them.
I think of one hot, dry day, not so long ago, in the old fort town of Jaisalmer, India, where I see a young teenager with no legs hoist himself by the elbows along a street to touch the hem of a tourist passing by. The tourist shrieks in disgust, or shock, or both, I'm not sure which; and quickens her pace. I want to take a photo to remind myself of how life can be, how opportunity takes so many forms, but I don't. I'm travelling, not touring.
As we stroll towards the Cleveland Centre, the sun disappears behind a cloud and I begin to doubt my decision-making abilities. What was I thinking, moving to the north of England? Along the pedestrian way, outside the largest Boots I've ever seen, a very thin, chain-smoking man sells today's edition of The Evening Gazette. An abandoned pram is parked nearby. Two community police officers approach. Does the man know where the owner of the pram, and the baby ensconced within it, might be? Or who they are?
No. He does not.
I remember the dust-covered urchin with her mischievous grin, dread-locked hair and upturned, outstretched hand. Greeting me each morning when I dared to venture out from the laneway that hid my hostel from the bustling main bazaar. Couldn't have been more than five. No family, no school.
Further along, closer to the £1 sandwich van, the elderly sit on park benches and flocks of pigeons - dirty, diseased animals that they are - hone in. Without exception, all the elderly under the avine attack are chain smoking.
Further along the centre again, another very slim man with marks up his arms and wielding a cigarette, shouts angrily at a heavily pregnant female, scarcely old enough to be called a woman, who is pushing a stroller and smoking at the same time. "I'M HAVIN' A CONVERSATION 'ERE!" he yells, to anyone who dares glance his way. "WHERE'S MY FOOKIN MOONEY??" he screams at her. She puffs on her cigarette, swears back at him, and resolutely continues walking.
An image flashes into my head of a chaste, sari-covered woman, dragging an unwilling four-year-old by the hand, walking demurely two paces behind her husband. Face covered. Silent as her husband strode through the crowds.
As I instinctively walk closer to The Beloved, down past the train station and along a side street, a car with its alarm going and hazard lights blinking furiously speeds past us with great urgency. I figure it to be stolen. Two minutes later a police patrol car screams past.
I remember my first morning in Paharganj, frustrated at the slow progress of my bicycle rickshaw, determined to know why the four lanes of traffic seemed to have stalled. A cow had taken up residence across three lanes.
I become increasingly morose, and frightened, as I walk through this new town called Middlesbrough I am to live in for the next few years. How will I cope?
I remember what The Beloved said to me after I broke down and revealed I wasn't as tough as I made out and couldn't possibly manage in India without him. I was morose, frightened, fragile.
"One day at a time," he said to me then. "One day at a time."
Penned by Leeds Consultation Project at 2:48 AM
