It was the Garba season and monsoon rains and continuing heat did nothing to diminish the general excitement as girls bought garba skirts in bright colours, embroidered with sequins and mirrors and skimpy tops to reveal an expanse of naked midriff. Nine consecutive nights of dancing, in a swirl of pulsating rhythm and sweat - a test of endurance and stamina, in which everyone participated.
The girl from the slum hung out her spangled skirt to dry, the next festival would be Diwali, some weeks later. She washed clothes for a living and I could hear her wooden paddle every morning, as she beat and scrubbed the garments in a monotonous and continuous rhythm.
But that night at about 10 p.m., everything changed. She had met a boy - her father didn't approve. A fight broke out, raised voices at first, but becoming louder and louder, as his fury increased - the family milled around - the sound of slaps, as blows rained down on the girl. The situation grew more and more violent and her cries and protestations were of no use - the anger seemed to crescendo in intensity, like a tropical storm. "Papa, papa", she wept and cried out in broken, desperate, sobs.
The horrible sound of domestic violence and a terrible beating, continued into the night. At 7 a.m. the next morning, broken, she whimpered in agony, as they tried to move her. A few weak, groans and then she slipped away. A man and woman ran from the dwelling, as if blown by a wind and the shock and finality of her death, was palpable.
A woman appeared wiping her eyes with the edge of her sari, as others used cell phones to spread the news. Someone was summoned from the town and a group of women stood in a close circle, as they negotiated the cost of funeral arrangements and a stretcher to bear her body away. As money was counted out from a large wad of notes, it reminded me of a painting or etching, by one of the Northern Renaissance artists, perhaps it was Durer, of the betrayal of Christ by Judas for 30 pieces of silver - the same furtiveness, as money changed hands, in exchange for a life.
By 11 a.m., a few more people had arrived - a gathering. The girl's body was lifted onto the stretcher, covered in flowers and borne away. There was a sense of catharsis, of spent anger, calm after the storm.
The next morning, women of the family, washed every piece of clothing, every sheet or mat - every vestige of the shocking night of violence. And so they moved on with their lives.
"What happened?" I asked the watchman, some days later. He looked at me quietly and said..."Madam, it was a family matter"........ and with that he turned away.
The girl from the slum hung out her spangled skirt to dry, the next festival would be Diwali, some weeks later. She washed clothes for a living and I could hear her wooden paddle every morning, as she beat and scrubbed the garments in a monotonous and continuous rhythm.
But that night at about 10 p.m., everything changed. She had met a boy - her father didn't approve. A fight broke out, raised voices at first, but becoming louder and louder, as his fury increased - the family milled around - the sound of slaps, as blows rained down on the girl. The situation grew more and more violent and her cries and protestations were of no use - the anger seemed to crescendo in intensity, like a tropical storm. "Papa, papa", she wept and cried out in broken, desperate, sobs.
The horrible sound of domestic violence and a terrible beating, continued into the night. At 7 a.m. the next morning, broken, she whimpered in agony, as they tried to move her. A few weak, groans and then she slipped away. A man and woman ran from the dwelling, as if blown by a wind and the shock and finality of her death, was palpable.
A woman appeared wiping her eyes with the edge of her sari, as others used cell phones to spread the news. Someone was summoned from the town and a group of women stood in a close circle, as they negotiated the cost of funeral arrangements and a stretcher to bear her body away. As money was counted out from a large wad of notes, it reminded me of a painting or etching, by one of the Northern Renaissance artists, perhaps it was Durer, of the betrayal of Christ by Judas for 30 pieces of silver - the same furtiveness, as money changed hands, in exchange for a life.
By 11 a.m., a few more people had arrived - a gathering. The girl's body was lifted onto the stretcher, covered in flowers and borne away. There was a sense of catharsis, of spent anger, calm after the storm.
The next morning, women of the family, washed every piece of clothing, every sheet or mat - every vestige of the shocking night of violence. And so they moved on with their lives.
"What happened?" I asked the watchman, some days later. He looked at me quietly and said..."Madam, it was a family matter"........ and with that he turned away.
