Dark red

hands_powder_india

You open the door of the airport cab and boom! The heat, the screaming voices, the chaotic horns, the smile of the vendor already asking you if you buy one of his wonderful hand drums even before you set one foot onto the ground. All this and much more is right there, the first second you arrive in India and you know exactly why you are back. Because it is what it is. And it is a lot. India is hundreds of thousands of things. There are smiles and stares. There are bustling and shouting human beings running through narrow streets, where cows stand in grace and silence, simply taking their time to ruminate. They are holi but what’s in their stomach is most probably evil. Beside the trucks blowing their horns, there is the frail tintinnabulation of a prayer bell. When you step out of the tempel your nose is filled with the fragrances of flowers and incense sticks and just one second later the stinky garbage at the roadside is there to hunt the fragrances away. The chai is as sweet as some laws are sour.
Everything seems to have two extremes but the colors. Bright colors everywhere. Shining happy fabrics. Blue houses. Red Hair. Pink flowers. Yellow bangles. Purple Saris. Orange turbans. Strong. Dark. Firm. Solid. Colors. Everywhere.
If ever one has to find a transcription for India, a little jar of dark red powder would probably do best. Color. Passion. Sheer joy of life, tousend of little particles jammed together, fighting their way up to the top, waiting for the right moment to jump out – pounce at a the arriving ones and then stick with them forever. India gets into your clothes, into your hair and skin and somehow you can’t wash it off anymore. Some parts will always be there with you. For good.

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