Middle of the night, and Maud is at it again.
Are you awake? she asks in a stage whisper.
"No."
Of course you are, she persists.
Phil sleeps peacefully beside me in the king-size waterbed that solved all my back problems for $50 after Kerrie found it for us a decade ago.
"Go away, Maud."
I need you to google, she pleads.
"Google yourself!"
I can't!
I groan, sit up in bed, and take my laptop from the nightstand.
Maud is all smiles.
Now google: women's rights + chennai, india, she commands.
"Got it," I yawn. A list pops up, and we scan it together.
The same name appears in several stories: Fatima Burnad, or sometimes Burnad Fatima.
She works with Dalit women (desperately poor . . . many survived the tsunami but had little access to relief funds . . . suffer routine discrimination under globalization . . . forced into trafficking . . . devote themselves to farming, fishing, demanding clean water for their families . . . are ready to form their own political party . . . .)
We search for her email address and send a message.
Eight hours later a reply appears in my mailbox:
"Greetings!
You are most welcome to visit us in Chennai at the following address. We
can discuss more about women's rights and about the movements in Tamil Nadu.
Kindly let us know the date of your visit . . . .
Thanking you,
With warm regards,
Burnad Fatima. N.
Glad I woke you up? Maud asks.
"Yeah," I grin at her.
Stick with me, kid, Maud promises. You'll be OK.
