Trash (October 8, 2013)

“Mmm, something smells wonderful,” I remarked as I skipped down the rocky steps to the Chirag Office, breathing in the slightly smoky that transported me back to the simple days of toasting marshmallows over snarling flames. For a few moments I was in the woods of Pennsylvania, chanting camp songs as the crickets chirped along.

“Hmm, I wonder what they could possibly be roasting at 9:30 in the morning?” As I drew nearer, the smell grew more intense— the air saturated with thick clouds of smoke— no longer a sweet aroma reminiscent of my camping days but a stifling haze. Reaching the bottom of the hill, I followed the tendrils to a large stone pit that I had hardly noticed before, hidden behind the mossy path. As I peered inside, staring at the low flames that licked the Masala Madness chip bag and the countless other products I had unconsciously consumed during my trip, the obvious truth dawned on me. They were burning my trash.

Trash. It is the ubiquitous decoration to every road— the stray bags Oh Yes! chips a consistent meter marker as we make our way through the village. The golden archways of town are the piling trash heaps, steadily growing until someone gets the energy to sprinkle some kerosene to remove the eyesore. Even as you walk through the forests of Sitla, a seemingly idyllic wood echoing of a forgotten time, you are jerked back to reality as you start to notice the abandoned wrappers of chewing tobacco burrowed into the soil.

I have never been truly conscious of that mindless consumption, my trail of trash. In America, it is easy to shirk constant awareness of your impact, to feel proud that even though you are producing so much waste, at least you sort out your recyclables. But in India, your apathy is not whisked away every morning by your friendly trashman—is unabashedly thrust down your lungs. When you see that impulse-purchase cookie wrapper melting into noxious smoke on your front lawn, how can you possibly ignore, let alone justify your actions?