Colors of time

The air was thick with what was once a living tree. In fact, dozens of long dead trees were ablaze and there was nothing out of the ordinary here. This was a city where the norms were redefined by a set of alternative realities and uncommon needs. Flung into an entirely new universe, I could think of nothing but to supplement the smoke-filled inhalations with a more familiar form. I still had my pack from home. From here on in, I would be living an adventure. I would be free of the constraints I had allowed myself to be a victim of. Libertad.

It is incredible how intoxicating the smell of urine can be. Molecules of water once pure adopt a curious personality as they travel through a living body so that by the time they achieve freedom, they have been soured by the weaknesses of the soul. And once airborne, they can suffocate even the strongest lungs. Yet, just as impressive is one’s ability to adapt to the pungent lethality of it and carry on forward with no ill-effect, even given some time, without the recoil previously associated with it. Undoubtedly, one can never be so acclimated that it goes unnoticed, but time does come when the hairs of the nostrils don’t even curl up any more. This is when you’ve gone from tourist to traveler.

Amongst the depravity, the rawness, the purity of the environment, there is a remarkable acknowledgement of the beauty of the human condition. While feces line the railroad tracks, colors grace the eyes in a chaotic unpatterned kaleidoscope. While rats cross your path, the smell of fried foods tickle the pit of your stomach. It is within the constant and permanent extremes that wonder finds a home, calling your name with a seduction that you can’t imagine finding anywhere else.

Rajas and the untouchable pass each other on the streets without a thought while you question the sanity of such a culture, all the while admiring its ability to work with such longevity within so much undeniable contradiction. The awe is palpable to the viewer, the foreigner, the outsider. Such things are commonplace here, they are overlooked and invisible, but shock makes for a keener eye. Perhaps my eyes weren’t as keen as they could have been, for I found less shock in this magnificent story than I did pure amazement. But it did not escape my attention that shadows were dotting the landscape, desperate, broken, unsupported shadows in the brilliant sun. All around, shadows drove touk-touks, pulled inhuman loads, poured stench onto the streets, rested their haunches on their heels, found dark corners in which to rest overworked bodies and minds. Invisible shadows in an eclipse during the height of the day. These are the truths that attack one’s sense of normalcy.

Where there would be hot dogs, there are biryanis. In place of pizza are samosas. At every pause from here to there via rail, fried products from every corner of the country soar through the cars, infusing the air with grease and temptation. It does not take long for the body to cringe at the idea of another fried food. Kormas, pakoras, chapattis, dahls all race by at lightning speed, stopping in an instant and for an instant in response to a raised hand or a raised voice, then onward to the closest door just in time for the screech of the wheels to signal the continuation of the journey. Cramped, hot, patient brown bodies sway in unison in every direction but all on a common path to areas unknown. Hundreds of standing and sitting waterproof bags of water and blood, each in constant contact with 5 others at any given time manage means of sleep unimaginable to any creature. Feet millimeters from another’s face is no justification for consciousness as 2 or 3 share a space designed for one. Verticality is no excuse for not resting the mind and body, despite the demands it makes on that same body. The sheer fascination these views provide forces the mind open and begs a thousand questions, many of them to do with the very nature of humanity, the very nature of nature itself. That any creature would voluntarily subject itself to these circumstances boggles the mind. That any being can adapt so fundamentally to such an environment, such a society, such aberrance within nature is both absurd and beautiful. For those moments in each individual’s life, they have broken the rules nature wrote up. Never had nature intended that creatures be in such close proximity for such extended periods of time throughout their lives. Nowhere in the natural world does one see a congregation within a species of so many individuals in such close physical contact with one other, even as a means to an end. When rats are forced into confined spaces in large numbers aggression ensues, insanity begins to propagate, and a myriad of aberrant behaviors are all not far behind. Yet, here, it is the accepted collective consciousness. In these moments, understanding trumps nature, individual needs in common override the biological need for the security of personal space.

At times, you can sense that even the roaches have gained a deep respect for human adaptability. While they have found their own means of navigating an artificial landscape, they seem to do so in a more logical manner, exposing a certain ironic truth; that they are the more civilized entity. Hidden from sight while the train displaces masses of air, they reliably and eventually predictably begin their expeditions into the visible human world once the view from the windows becomes static. Scurrying about in search of what tiny scraps were deemed too small to retrieve by a population on the verge of starvation, they scour the floors, walls, and ceilings, even venturing into the frightening depths of the defecation centers. Tiny as they are - and understandably so if they are to fit in the crevices available to them, if they are to escape detection - they prove themselves to be fearless, either out of ignorance or insight.

Incredible sights. Incredible infirmities. Poverty beyond the most terrifying dreams, hopelessness, injustice, all line the streets of every city, while faith, acceptance and survival add a hint of rose to the picture, making it just palpable enough to endure. And in time, enduring turns to resignation, to understanding, to appreciation, and eventually, without realizing it, to sheer enthrallment. Rabid, emaciated dogs still invoke pity and sorrow. Cows dining on plastic bags, cardboard boxes and occasional organic detritus still create emotional reactions of disgust and anger. Scores of homeless and impoverished shadows still tug at the pits of your stomach, but in the constant emotional bath that is this place, confusion and fatigue turn into love. Stockholm syndrome focused on an entire nation, an entire people. Beyond the absolutes a new moderation takes hold, a new sense develops that begins to discover the subtleties, the nuances that both polarize and soften the extremes. Spiritual wealth and corruption stroll hand in hand down every street, excess and destitution stroke each other a hundred times over in every shop, success and failure create an impregnable bond so tight even light cannot shine through it. This is nature in its purest form, where the strong enjoy the delicacies once reserved for gods and the weak become the playthings of demons.

In the face of it all, whether as a product of the Hindu belief in reincarnation and karma, or whether generations of exposure to contradiction and confusion have colored the minds of all, brown skinned men and woman manage to carry the seeds of genuine gentleness and tolerance. If the meek will inherit the earth, this sub-continent will make up a substantial majority of earth borne survivors. The ability to find not only the desire to endure but to pursue life amid this insanity is inspiring and humbling. One has to wonder whether they themselves are inspired and humbled by this very observation.

1.1 billion incarnations of Shiva and Vishnu. 1.1 billion children of Ganesh and Hanuman, of Guru Nanak, of Mohamed, of Siddhartha, exchanging glances, rupees, cell phone calls, seats and meals. 1.1 billion in a land designed to house no more than half that. Incredulity has a home in this place, alongside ignorance and tolerance. Each of these three little pigs is threatened by the presence of the other, anticipating the emergence of its neighbor, yet coexisting peacefully in the interim. A precarious and longstanding, unwritten, unspoken truce covers the realm, invisible to most, but there for the curious and skeptical to see. Non-violence may have been perfected here, but on occasion its counterpart bares its teeth and tears flesh from bone with a cold ruthlessness that seems sprung from the mind of a psychopath. Yet in those moments, the world appears finally to make sense. For that stretch of localized history psychosis is the only state of being that fits. It is in fact the consistent lack of psychosis within this cauldron of contradiction that is the most shocking revelation this loose assembly of states presents.

Here communism and democracy are not opposing forces. Capitalism and religion don’t engage in battle. Spirituality and enslavement aren’t foes. Coexistence is the norm. Muslim and Hindu, Buddhist and Sikh, Christianity and Zoroastrianism all find a place, even if they are never sure how they will pay the next month’s rent. Inclusion on a national scale is tempered with exclusion on a social one. Federal goals are thwarted by regional philosophies. Power shifts hands from the government core to the financial center, from bread basket to organized uprising upon news of the latest tragedy, the latest assault, the latest success. In the constant displacement of power, balance is found as no one entity can calm the frenzy of momentum that has become the nature of this particular strain of endowment. Miraculous.

At the whim of a breeze the mind is snapped back from lavish thoughts of philosophy and politics into the world of the physical senses. A brightly colored sari wrenches ideals from you and replaces them with the calming attraction to the superficial. Bright orange embroidery on purple and yellow worn by an attractive young rajasthani woman with hazel eyes reminds you that there are many levels of glory here. A graceful man with a Raja moustache and a bright green desert turban lazily meanders in the opposite direction, bringing color to the otherwise dirty yellow background of a territory rarely acquainted with the exquisite violence and tranquility of water. From the grays and browns of the Muslim north I have been carried on wheels of steel to the warm days and cold nights of a multicolored conspiracy of sand dunes and barren rock mountains. As though to compensate for nature’s lack of hued expressions, the human inhabitants have signed an unconscious pact to infuse vivid color into every article they wear, produce, eat, sell, and share. Reds interact with aquas, yellows brighter than the sun mingle with lime greens, oranges do battle with violets, and the cacophony of visual stimulants injects warmth into the air and its people. Here, the lack of resources is bearable. Life without, still appears to hold meaning and purpose. The warmth of a million noons has left beautifully patterned scars on the hearts of this wasteland. Solar energy has been cultivated via photosynthesis by humans and cows, dogs and birds so that each has the surplus energy to find pleasure in the slightest breeze and the shyest smile. Pockets of water demand the immediate outcropping of habitations. The presence of trees begs for the cultivation of the surrounding acres. Temples shine brighter, side strewn garbage lining the highways glows innocuously. Stern faces of the north are replaced by toothless smiles etching the face with awkward and pleasant lines. The power of the sun on the human condition is more obvious in this part of the world than anywhere else.

A few hundred kilometers closer to the summer home of Helios reveals this truth in additional detail. Yellow is replaced by greens even the gods did not foresee. Fields of ripening rice aside stretches of predominantly unblemished forest make for consecrated land. Streams flow into rivers and rivers into the sea. Sunsets wage war on the night with a brilliance of color never intended for any eye. Mango trees are separated by brush and violet flowers thick enough to hide the infinite armies of plastic liquid and solid receptacles. So alive is this place that even the presence of the high-pitched flying sound machines is almost welcomed for a short time. All is as it should be. Life has taken a different path in this land of water and flora. Churches begin to replace hindu temples and the mind desperately attempts to reconcile these new forms of architecture and symbolism. Indian huts turn into European homes, the streets seem wider and less congested, the air is cleaner, the land is fresher, and that smile that was at home in the desert has begun to creep onto my face.

The nights are tolerable here. Save for the mosquitoes, this seems to be the place my body can call home. Poverty has lost all its immediacy. Filth has acquired charm, infirmity has hired capacity, dogs have subjugated rabies and cows have managed to entice layers of fat to make a home under their hides. Salt travels freely in the air, ice cream finds its way into a million mouths, and meals are not ashamed of their meat content.

Here you are either immobilized by the comfort of the warmth of the sun’s rays combined with its niece the breeze or you are seduced to put one foot in front of the other in a repetitive manner with no destination in mind. Waves crash upon the shore while skin makes its first appearance in 2 months in strange new shades of white and tan and other tints not seen since the summers of the west. Scantily clad men and women frolic in the ocean, walk in embraces across scalding sand, lie for extended periods in the glow of the day next to local fishing boats mysteriously beached on the shores. Bamboo huts and thatch roofs line the coast, serving foods from around the globe, alcohol flows with fervor, lassis call upon the aid of mind altering substances to entice the weary and adventurous. If not for the elevated monetary consequences of the acquisition of this bounty and the absurdity of the restrictions on where and when vibrations of melody and thumps can grace your ears, this place would have no other name but paradise. But this island of tranquility and comfort, like the entire nation, is not sustainable. Time is closing upon this journey as it does with all journeys, as it has with all forms of matter, and shortly this will become a series of fragmented visuals and smells, thoughts and sounds, ideas and reactions. Elephants and camels walking beside one another, each dawning a look of superiority over the other, pigeons and eagles sharing the same sky, dogs and goats ignoring the other, cows and horses envying the other for their freedom or their security, monkeys and men fighting over bowls of sugar, neither confident enough to strike at their former or future selves; these are some of the random occurrences that come from this bastion of purity, innocence, cruelty and depravity. From a night shared sleeping with all the homeless in the world to the excesses of a week’s rent spent on one preparation of ingestibles, and a thousand salient and forgettable moments in between, this place has written an unintelligible and irretrievable story in Sanskrit across my many chakras and I still cannot put to words or symbols what it has chosen to share with me. Enchanted, disgusted, inspired, depressed, excited, peaceful, chaotic and wonderful as it was, I still can’t help feeling as though the bulk of its teachings was lost on me. Cherished as an experience can be, I was and will always be incapable of grasping the unfiltered wisdom that was offered so generously and genuinely to me by the people, the life and the land I called home for such a fleeting spec of time.