Pushkar

Pushkar was the last place I went in India. In this small city of lakes and mountains I said goodbye to people I’d come to love, and spent some time alone for the first time in weeks. This is a passage I wrote on the train en route to Delhi, freshly aware of my dwindling time in India. It describes my thoughts more adequately than I am often able to voice.

                  Here in the Sun Country, people die beside the highway, the starved horses are tethered to shopfronts to bear their ribs, and marriages are made not proposed in passion but they seem to last. There is no black and white, no wrong and right. There are colors that teeter between beautiful and offensive, and love is not clothed in hard to get or take your time attire. The films are danced, the shoulders covered, and the stares unapologetic.  These spices have been acquired by my tongue, this music likened by my ears, and the vibrant silk wrapped around my skin. I have been enveloped by India, and no longer do I resist it’s motherly tongue, dusty floor, and persimmon colored sun. This has been my home now, and I unabashedly give it my love.