Notes on a Girl Walking the Tightrope

Robert Hirschfield finds a impulse of beauty in a street opening in India.

Tightrope hiker in Goa. Technicolorcavalry.

THE FAMILY comes as well as stretches a wire between dual trees upon Sudder Street. The father bangs a drum to serve us from a run down hotels, as well as his immature daughter, twelve maybe, stands staid upon a rope, arms widespread wide, as if she is about to fly away.

we am station outside a Hotel Diplomat with zero to do. A dangerous moment. The Indian producer we am ostensible to meet is a half hour late. we am getting tired of waiting. we dont really similar to her poetry anyhow. Maybe she doesnt similar to mine.

Calcuttas feverishness is pressing down upon my throat similar to a messy thumb. To my surprise, we find myself approaching a rope, where a immature lady with a aged face, in her unwashed silver dress, is taking her first steps. Ordinarily, we dont similar to saying have-nots interesting haves. Even those similar to myself navigating a rigors of cold water usually hotels. But slowly, this lady begins to apart me from my stapled together thoughts about a social equation here. With each step she takes, it is clear to me it is not only a wire she masters, though a space around a rope.

Ordinarily, we dont similar to saying have-nots interesting haves.

To cruise between dual trees upon a boat of a rope, with a self-contained ease she embodies, is a kind of grace. The kind we have never tasted in my life. we am not given to station over an abyss with my risks.

The lady is showing me not so most how it is done, though a pure light of courageous doing. we am watching her as well as nodding.


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