"Madam! Madam! Please" She runs up to me, her little dress might have been green once. Her bare, bandaged feet, dirty black from the streets, must have been small pink baby feet once. Her worn, anxious face, thin and emaciated, must have been young once. Maybe, long ago. Not anymore. She is five years old. And you know? She's one of the lucky ones. She begs for money, but she is not sold for it. Not yet.
There are things I saw in India that I never wrote here. Desperate and starving and living on the brink of hopelessness. I did not write them here, because I can't. I cannot write those stories. Not even I, who play "more black keys than white", can find the notes for that.
But I remember them. They are like debts I have promised to pay yet cannot find a way to make it right. How could I? I am just one girl. They are so much bigger than I am.
I have no answers. In the face of such black hopelessness, I would stand small and insignificant, fighting desperately against monsters that swallow grown men whole. And I would not win. I could not.
But I would fight anyway.