Docu-fiction or reality. Either way this is a gut-wrenching piece of writing.
My year was up, working in India wasn’t real work, Mum said. Never mind the heart breaking Journey to the railway station in Salur. Where I was to choose three children amongst the crowd that huddled together, with their kohl blackened eyes and swollen bellies that silently pleaded. Three bodies burned on the pyre as HIV and Tuberculosis claimed them, leaving three beds free.
The Government bod I was with, covered his nose and mouth from the stench as we ploughed our way through the filth. You can’t choose, it would catch your heart and rip it out, yet I searched the faces and touched three children of varying ages, then we left for the home.
I knew many would die there beside that track; by the time we had bathed and soothed the lucky three they’d be gone.
A stone marked the spot where a piece of me died in Salur, but it wasn’t
proper work said Mum.
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Thank you I hope your reblog brings me some new connections.
And you. My reblog has been re-reblogged at least twice.
Wow I hadn’t even thought about reblogging a reblogg like Chinese whispers but hopefully noisier. Thank you very much Jane.
It’s never happened to one of my posts that I know of so give yourself a big pat on the back 🙂
Patting as i speak. X
I will share this flash fiction on India in my upcoming article…
I’m pleased for Ellen. It’s a great piece. Don’t forget to let her know. I’m sure she’ll be flattered 🙂