The gift

…. the second gift- no one gave it to me, but I just received it, somehow. Or better, the lady whom I will now talk about, she, by allowing me to take her photos, gifted me something precious. But even before my capturing of her, the moment I discovered her on that Vierambachtstraat tram stop junction- I had got my reward. It is difficult to count the number of times I had yearned for this reality to happen, the number of times I had prayed for her to appear. Even when I had vacated my room in that locality, even if I had no clue of her contact number or address, neither the time of her strolls- yet I had wanted to see her, yet I had wanted her to appear, I had wanted to meet her just once. Just once- any day, any moment that I am walking on that same tram stop of Vierambachtstraat.

 I didn’t owe her anything. It was she who owed me back the part of my mind that was still clung to her. She acquired perhaps the first spot on the list of the people whom I had wanted to capture in my photographs before I left the Netherlands for good. To be able to say all about that woman to the people, it was crucial for her image to be existing in my phone. What did I want to tell? Was it her jaw that was twisted to her right? Was it her evident retardation that she was bound to contract with years of roaming on streets in the Netherlands, her tongue that stuck out as she spoke, or the thick white coating over it or the tacky white saliva peeping from the inner side of her lips. I kept these visual impressions from the summer afternoon she took me to a store to buy her a glass of flavored milk. Milk and Saliva- I wanted to disappear soon after satisfying her before I would discern a foul smell existing between us. 

I spent almost three years asking- why do the people in this country run away to pretend to be not seeing. Why is greeting so difficult? Is it the climate?  

When did I imbibe this same behavior- I don’t know. This shutting off like a turtle came as a response to not let the other ask too much from you.  You had to do enough and all by yourself already. 

What did she ask from me- just a Euro- still I wanted to run away each time she appeared in the frame of my eyes. Was it only about a Euro coin or was it about the fear of someone approaching you/telling you about their needs? here, in this country, it feels scary to be exposed to that. 

There would either be a typically shaped cap, an oversized jacket, a dragged and shuffling gait that would introduce her from far, or just her voice that changed its loudness probably with her constant chases after people. One evening, I would have automatically glued my eyes on the pathway of the street I was walking and increased my pace. As much as I would lose her behind my left ear, a heaviness of seeing her body shuffle limply behind a man who had just spurned her choked something in my body that yet continued in haste.  But a part of my mind latched itself on her.

This day, that I get to see you, I can have you stolen in my system and then tell others- “This is the lady who…….”