Susan LaffertyWe dodge auto rickshaws and taxis and goats, crossing a main road. Ten years ago in India.
Our guide asks if we can go to the red light district and pray. Saying, “Be ready. The spiritual battle is intense.”
We step around the corner, into a lane. And I see them. Women in front of narrow doorways on a broken street. Some just sitting. Staring.
Others take care of daily tasks—cooking rice, washing clothes, feeding children.
Ordinary things.
The organ shrieks as we enter the sanctuary. Dissonant. Avant garde notes bouncing off ancient stone floors. Filling the arched ceilings.
Discordant.
Disconcerting.
Seemingly out of place with the luminous stained glass and stately wooden pews.
Tennis. I took lessons once upon a time. During my elementary school years. Early morning lessons to avoid the tropical midday heat of Surabaya.
I learned how to hold the racket. Practiced forehand and backhand. And remember this advice, “Keep your eyes on the ball.”
Somehow watching the ball instead of the court and other players and my racket meant I had a chance of hitting it across the net.
