India

He'd left her, just like that. In the middle of the night, he'd taken their two-year-old and sneaked away. He had taken what little money they'd earned and left her no way to find him. By the time I saw her, she was wild-eyed and frantic, a nine-month-old on her hip.

I stuck my head out our door and heard her pleading for money so she could leave the construction site. The contractor had made it clear through his screams that she was no longer welcome to squat on his land. After all, she was married to the cheater, the ne'er-d0-well who'd run off without finishing his job. But she didn't have 10 cents to her name, and she couldn't leave.

"I don't have food for my child. I don't have money. I can't leave. Please."

And they all just stared. I felt myself start to shake, as I'm prone to do, and I went inside to collect my wits and pray. I found a bag of rice and dahl and a carton of vegetable oil. I went back outside and handed them to her, as the men looked on. The woman was wild by now and squealing with hopelessness.

"Khaana chahiye?" I whispered. But she wouldn't listen to me. "Do you need food?" I wished my belly would quit jumping. She stuck her hands through the bars of my gate and took the food, but her eyes were giving up.

One man reluctantly gave her 10 rupees--about 20 cents--and shuffled shamefacedly away. No one would make eye-contact with me as I stood there, but I could feel their eyes when I turned around. I went back inside thinking there was nothing more I could do. Acid threatened from behind my eyes.

Then the baby started wailing. I looked out my window, and again saw the workmen (and now two neighbor women) all staring in the direction of the path leading to our house. I went outside and saw the woman laying on the side of the road, partly on top of her baby.

"Go inside and get me some water, Dilsara." I kept my voice low. She returned quickly. I'm a scaredy-cat for the most part. I hate confrontation. I hate blood. I hate awkwardness. But I know marching orders when I hear them. So I straightened my spine and willed my limbs to stop quivering. I walked that road by myself, back straight, skin absurdly white under the Indian sun.

I could feel several pairs of eyes boring into my back, and I wished my water bottle would quit sloshing. I finally got to her and knelt down. She had fainted and a fly was making an entrance of her mouth. Her baby twisted and fussed underneath her, kahjel lining his brown eyes. I shook her a little. "Kya hua? Paani le lijiye." She didn't move or open her eyes.

I looked back down the road in disbelief. No one had moved a muscle. No one planned to help me or her. Not the workers she'd cooked for, not the neighbors who clucked their tongues with overdone pity. So I squatted down and picked the baby up. He was damp and covered in sand. He grabbed my kurta and layed his head on my privileged chest. With a backward glance at his mother, I carried the baby to the neighbor-women's house.

"Madat kijiye." Please help me, I asked them. Oh yes. Too bad. Yes, maybe she needs chai. But they didn't get her any, and they followed me only reluctantly.

We dragged her to a shady spot, and they poured water on her until she woke up crying. After a minute, they left her again. I came back to my house as she nursed her baby. I was mad now. So mad that I didn't care about propriety, and it's notoriously dangerous ground for me.

I told my kamwalli that I know all about the 'don't give money' rule, but that I didn't care. I grabbed a medium-sized bill and made my way one last time down the short road to where the invisible woman sat. I knew before I'd even reached her that I was going to lose it.

By the time I had crouched in front of her and placed a hand on her stick-arm, my eyeliner was making black roads down my cheeks. She flinched a little at my touch. I gave her the bill and looked into her eyes. She stared into my face, ugly from grief. This was my one chance.

"Prabhu Yeshu apse prem karte hain." Jesus loves you. She nodded briefly, staring into my eyes, surprised at my tears, I guess. She tried to kiss my feet.

I don't know the Hindi word for goodbye. I'm not sure one exists. So I said it in English, and turned my face back towards home.