Kinga Litynska "Lost Youth"

Lost Youth Sticky air hangs over the city like an iron curtain. Immersed in their daily juggle amidst the world of bedlam and racket, in a silent rush, passers-by push through packed backstreets shrouded in clouds of exhaust gases that buses, cars and tuk-tuks mercilessly breathe. Lungs are short of breath, mouths are full of dust, and nostrils instantly absorb all-encompassing aromas, notes of incense and intrusive stench. The heat was sweltering, the sun scorching. Dressed in funny Ali Baba pants and a little top, she approached me doing somersaults and back flips, landing either on her hands or feet. So impressive. So disarming. The girl held out her open hand and called: Chocolate! Pen! Rupee! Nearby, on the ground, sat a small boy who entertained passers-by playing the flute and tambourine. In front of him, he had put his little, worn-out beanie to collect the alms. Not far from the siblings, leaned up against a filthy wall sprayed with flashy graffiti, sat their young mother. Her face expressed hopelessness. Her eyes were pale and empty, just like the boy's hat. People were passing by, and yet – nobody cared. And she did not notice anyone as if she had got used to the state of numbness that fate had made for her. Dirty, tired, forgotten. Unable to provide. Unable to feel. India – a rich country of poor people in which magic and bluntness intertwine. A motherland of abandoned mothers. A land of those living lifeless lives.

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