I come in from a world of broken sidewalks (and I do mean broken...think, Lydia-sized holes into open sewage), chaotic traffic, women pinching your children's cheeks, stray dogs, cows, ants the size of a small cat, trash (piles and piles of trash), men spitting (or worse) and all the assault to the senses that this country is. Our building security guard (there are four of them: Renky, Robert-Alex, Reginalden, or Anthony) greets me, "Namaskara!" and opens the creaking wooden gate to this. A little garden corridor, and I'm home. We live 3 floors up, but as soon as I enter in the gate I feel at ease.
We have lived in this new apartment for almost 3 weeks. We can still hear the Muslim call to prayer and the "wake-up bird" (which is actually an Asian Koel...quite obnoxious and happily chimes the children awake close to 5am), still smell the fragrant sandalwood and incense being offered to the Hindu gods by our neighbors, and watch the women crack open coconuts just below the balcony where my washer sits. But this has already become a safe place. It's a retreat. It's a home. And I suppose it is an escape from all that's outside the gate, but it is also very much a part of this place. Our little piece of the city.
As a bonus, here is the little path to the building's playground the girls and I frequent. It has two swings, a slide and lots of shells in the sand to discover!
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