At the foot of Mehrangarh

Once, I was walking down a sloped street in Jodhpur, the famous blue city of India. Below me, a man quickly walked out of a house, turned up the hill, and began walking in my direction. His head was bent down over a bundle in his arms.

From behind him, a chorus of wailing voices followed him out onto the sun-baked street.

As he approached, I realized he was holding an infant. It was mostly swaddled in cloth. The infant’s arm hung down over the man’s arm. It swung limply with the motion of the man’s walk.

It was hot.

When the man passed me, he didn’t look up. He just walked by with his head down.

Quiet sobs caught in his throat.

The doorway he had come out of was black, a rectangle that held no light.

I turned and looked after him one time. His long, stiff legs carried him up the inclined street. Mehrangarh, the ancient fortress, stood high on the hill above him.