Hart looks disappointed, as if he’d expected more. A TV crew, perhaps, backing away from him as he strides to the consulate car. He’ll learn soon enough that one more death doesn’t make that much of a difference in a land of so many deaths. Poor bastard.
transcript of remarks by Shankar Das, Project Director, HELP-US, Zalilgarh, at meeting with Mr. and Mrs. Hart
October 12, 1989
(Owing to a malfunctioning tape recorder, voices of other participants in the meeting were inaudible and could not be properly transcribed.)
Mr. Hart, Mrs. Hart, please come in, please come in. It is my honor to velcome you both to Zalilgarh. Though in such wery sad circumstances. Wery sad circumstances.
Here is chart showing our project. It is population-control awareness project, as you are no doubt knowing. Objective is to inform poor rural women of family planning techniques. Family planning techniques. You are knowing? More importantly, educate them about facts of life. Facts of life. Why have so many children they cannot feed? If they are having fewer children, they are looking after them better.
Miss Priscilla was having so much knowledge. So hard-working. Took so much trouble to get to know local people. Everywhere she went, everywhere, on her cycle. On her cycle. Cycle also destroyed in terrible events. Really terrible.
Please have some tea. No sugar? Bhaiyya, bagair chini ka cha lé aana! Sorry, here habit is to serve tea with milk, sugar, all mixed already. Wery sorry. Wery sorry. New tea coming in just a minute. Bhaiyya, jaldi kar do!
Meanwhile if you vill just look at this wall. Here, you see dimensions of our project. Two thousand, three hundred and forty-three families served. Outreach program to one thousand, one hundred and seventy-five households. Households. Supply of baby powder, you can see figures for yourself. Supply of contraceptive devices. Clinic visits. We are best Indian project. Best.
Normally we are not having Americans working in Zalilgarh project. Policy of HELP is to help people to help themselves, you see. But since Miss Priscilla had been much involved in designing this project when she was in America, it seemed quite natural. Quite natural. She was here for her field research, the project was here, it all fitted in. Fitted in.
You are saying? No, not at all. She was wery popular. Wery modest, wery simple. Not like some big shot person from foreign. Here also, it was always Mr. Das this, Mr. Das that. She was knowing lot about this project, yet she was always asking, not telling. Not telling. You see, Mr. Das, how about if we tried this that way? Or tried that this way? And sometimes I am saying to her, this is wery good idea, Miss Priscilla Hart, but Zalilgarh is not America. Not America. In America you are doing such and such and so and so, but here it is different. And she is always listening. Always listening.
Your tea is all right now? Good, good. She was such a good girl. Such a sweet person. Sweet person. She made friends very easily. Sometimes I am saying to her, you should not be so friendly with all these people. Some of these people not your type. Not your type. And she is laughing and saying, Mr. Das, what is my type, please? Everyone is my type. And I am saying to her, no, you should be choosing more carefully you know, awoid some of these low-class riff-raff. And she is laughing again and saying, oh Mr. Das, are we all high-class riff-raff here, then? Laughing and saying. Laughing and saying.
Excuse me. You see how upset we all are about Miss Priscilla. Wery upset. The day before we had held big farewell party for her. So many people came. We could not have imagined what sort of farewell it would turn out to be. What sort of farewell. Wery sad.
This is Miss Kadambari. She is extension worker with us. She is working a lot with Miss Priscilla. Miss Kadambari will be taking you to where your daughter was staying. I believe you are wishing to see? Wery simple accommodation. Wery simple. But Zalilgarh is not Delhi, isn’t it?
We are fixing up appointment for you to meet district magistrate, Mr. Lakshman. He was in charge during riot, you know. He can tell you more details about tragic events of last veek. Wery important man. Wery good friend of Miss Priscilla also. Wery good friend.
Some more tea? No? Thank you very much for honoring us with your visit. I am wishing your goodselves a very comfortable stay in Zalilgarh. Please do not hesitate to call me if you are needing anything. I am always here. Always here.
from Priscilla Hart’s scrapbook
December 25, 1988
Christmas in Zalilgarh
Mists of dust on crumbling roadsides,
Cowdung sidewalks, rusting tin roofs.
Bright-painted signboards above dimly lit shops.
The tinkle of bicycle bells, the loud cries
Of hawkers selling vegetables, or peanuts, or scrap.
Red betel-stains on every wall
Compete with angry black slogans
Scrawled by men with a cause.
The dirty white dhotis of dirty brown men
Weaving in and out of traffic, in and out,
In and out of their sad-eyed women
Clad in gaily colored saris, clutching
Babies, baskets, burdens too heavy
For their undernourished bodies.
Here I have come to do good. It’s true:
So simple a task in so complex a land.
I wheel my bicycle into their habits,
Tell them what’s right, what can be done,
And how to do it. They listen to me,
So ignorant, so knowing, and when they have heard,
They go back to their little huts,
Roll out the chapatis for dinner,
Pour the children drinks of sewer water,
Serve their men first, eat what’s left,
If they’re lucky, and then submit unprotected
To the heaving thrusts of their protectors,
Abusers, masters. One more baby comes,
To wallow in misery with the rest.
It is Gods will. But not my God’s.
To their will I oppose my won’t.
Give me strength, oh Lord, to make things change.
Give me the time to make a difference.
from Randy Diggs’s notebook
October 11, 1989
God, what a dump.
The heat. The dust. The flies. The shit. The crowds. You name it, Zalilgarh has it. Every horrific Western cliché about India turns out to be true here.
letter from Priscilla Hart to Cindy Valeriani
February 2, 1989
…
The first time I saw him I didn’t really like him. He stepped down from an official car, one of those clunky Ambassadors that look like a steel box on wheels, and he was wearing that awful outfit Indian officials seem to like so much, the safari suit. The shirt was cut too short, its wings stuck absurdly out over his behind, the pants flared too much at the bottom — Indian tailors seem to be stuck with patterns from the ’70s, know what I mean? And I thought, Gawd, one more pompous self-important bureaucrat, completely unaware of the impression he makes, coming to throw his weight around our project. I could just imagine Mr. Das bowing and scraping and yes-sirring and no-sirring him to Kingdom Come, all to make sure the government remained happy with us, and I wanted no part of it. But it was too late to slip away, and when you’re the only paleface blonde in sight you can’t really make yourself inconspicuous. So he walked into the project office, and I was stuck.
And I was soon happy I was stuck. As Mr. Das did the usual spiel — “two thousand, three hundred and forty-three families served. Outreach program to one thousand, one hundred and seventy-five households” — repeating phrases in that odd way he has, I found myself studying our visitor, the new district magistrate. He is dark, my Mr. Lakshman, sort of a Jesse Jackson shade. Fine features, an especially perfect nose, a silken moustache. I was reminded of Omar Sharif in “Lawrence of Arabia” on video. Only Lakshman has a fuller mouth, a really sensuous mouth. I don’t believe I just wrote that. (Tear this up when you’ve read it, Cindy, OK?)